by Alex Capus
efforts came to naught and we didn’t exceed a top speed of thirteen-anda-half knots at the second attempt, he surprised me yet again. All he said was: ‘Relax, gentlemen, the lake is naturally choppier than the Thames, that’s the trouble. It makes no difference to us, we’re twice as fast as the Germans even so. Let’s proceed with a test firing and hope the mountings are properly secured this time, so the gunlayers and guns don t go overboard. This lake is swarming with crocodiles, as you know.’
Mimi and Toutou accelerated to full speed and both gunners fired a shot apiece. They remained on board, as did the guns.
Christmas Day itself passed uneventfully. Our work was complete. We’d done everything that needed doing and knew that all we now had to do was wait. Then the shooting would start - the shooting and killing and dying among strangers in a foreign land, and all for reasons that were fundamentally strange and incomprehensible to every last one of us. In the afternoon we played cricket, in the evening we got drunk on whisky and retired to bed early, as is usual in the tropics.
Boxing Day being a Sunday, I dozed for a while, then asked my boy to bring me some tea and didn’t get up until he whispered to me that the Commander had received and sent a number of messages, and that he’d twice been down to the harbour to start up the engines, only to turn them off again. That told me there was something in the wind.
I quickly got dressed and went to see Spicer-Simson, but he didn’t let on, merely greeted me in the polite but detached manner he has adopted throughout our expedition. During communal breakfast in the ‘wardroom’, which consists of little more than a long trestle table beneath a tarpaulin awning, he evinced an almost fatherly interest in his table companions’ well-being, passed some trivial remarks about the weather and Scotch whisky, which, he said, was far superior to Irish, and told some yarn from his days as a naval cadet - it involved inedible corned beef, a dim-witted ship’s cook and a belligerent billy goat.
At half past nine all hands had to muster on the parade ground for morning inspection, the raising of the Union Jack, and Sunday morning service. We sang O little town of Bethlehem and knelt in prayer. Then Spicer-Simson read some verses from the Book of Genesis, as he did
every Sunday. He was standing with his back to the lake, whereas we, who were drawn up in front of him, had an unobstructed view of it in the direction of the German coast. Just as Spicer-Simson came to the part where the Flood recedes and God is obliged to acknowledge that Noah’s descendants are just as depraved as his forebears were, a small German steamer chugged blithely into our field of vision belching smoke. It was the Kingani. This apparition naturally caused a stir in our ranks. We shuffled our feet, cleared our throats and whispered together, but the Commander merely glanced up from his Bible, said ‘Gentlemen, please!’, and calmly moved on to the part where God promises mankind never to flood the earth again and sends them a rainbow in token of his Covenant with them. When he’d finished he raised one hand to show we weren’t dismissed yet, turned his back on us and spent some time observing the Kingani, which had now come to within two miles. Then he turned about again, contemplated our ranks with his chin stuck out, and barked: ‘All hands to clean into fighting rig and ready the boats for action! Dismiss!’
There was a loud clatter of boots as everyone hurried off. SpicerSimson himself set off at a leisurely pace for the harbour, which is some four hundred yards from the parade ground. I caught him up and asked if I might go aboard with him, but he only laughed and said: ‘Nonsense, doctor, you’re far too valuable. We may need you ashore afterwards.’ So I contented myself with my usual onlooker’s role, fetched your opera glasses and a canvas chair from my hut, and accompanied all the other spectators to a hillock with a fine view of the lake. Many brought mugs of tea with them, others biscuits, and still others handed cigarettes around. Meanwhile, inquisitive natives were gathering a stone’s throw behind us, at first in ones and twos, then in dozens and finally in hundreds. We all watched tensely as the Kingani approached from the north, getting closer and closer inshore, before steaming past the harbour and along the coast in a southerly direction.
It seemed the enemy vessel would disappear beyond the next headland before our boats emerged from their lair, and the men on either side of me were already starting to grumble like spectators at a boring football match. I watched the unforgettable spectacle that followed with
bated breath. Standing at the very end of the jetty, ramrod straight and adamantinely calm, Spicer-Simson was following the Kingani s southerly progress through his binoculars, and I realized he was delaying his attack until he could be quite sure of intercepting the enemy vessel if she headed for Kigoma. When the moment came he unhurriedly walked back to Mimi’s berth, climbed aboard and stationed himself in the bow. Then both boats shot out into the lake and quickly overhauled the clearly unsuspecting Kingani, which continued to steam steadily south.
It was a fine morning, but the lake was rather choppy and the boats went skipping across the water like ducks and drakes. From my elevated vantage point I could distinctly see Spicer-Simson standing calmly in the bow, erect and unsupported, as he looked through his binoculars and gave hand signals to the helmsman. He didn’t budge when the Kingani made a sudden half turn and brought her gun to bear on Mimi, nor did he budge when German shells struck the water to left and right of him, sending up fountains of spray. I won’t bore you with a detailed description of the engagement. Suffice it to say that Commander Spicer-Simson presented me with the greatest spectacle I’ve ever witnessed, and that for the space of those few minutes he became the great commander of men he’d always wanted to be. He coolly waited for the right moment to act, then cleverly and fearlessly defeated the enemy at a stroke. After the first shots had been fired he swung Mimi and Toutou round in a wide arc so as to attack the Kingani, whose only gun was mounted in the bow, from astern. To us who were watching, the battle seemed over almost before it had begun. After a few near misses a shell pierced the Kingams foredeck. There was a bright flash and a fair amount of smoke. Moments later someone hauled the German flag down and someone else waved a piece of white cloth.
We burst out cheering, then hurried down to the harbour to give the crews a fitting hero’s welcome. Mimi was the first to arrive, followed by Toutou, which had taken the Kingani in tow. The German vessel had a big hole in her bow and was sinking, so she was towed to the shore and beached in six or seven feet of water. I made sure that the eleven prisoners and all our men were uninjured, then went to look for Spicer-Simson
in the cheering, milling throng. I found him two or three hundred yards south of the harbour, sitting all alone beside the lake and tossing pebbles into the water.
‘Heartiest congratulations, Commander!’ I called as I walked towards him. ‘You won the day!’
‘Yes’ he said softly, rubbing his nose in a sheepish way. ‘I did, didn’t I?’
‘I saw the whole thing. Commander. You were magnificent. The Germans didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Thanks, Hanschell.’ He tossed another pebble into the water. ‘I really do believe it was a good show, wasn’t it?’
‘The men are calling for you, Commander. They want to see you.’
‘In that case, let’s go.’
And then, at the moment of his greatest triumph, when all his dreams had come true and his life had fulfilled its purpose, he held out his hand like an old man wanting to be helped to his feet. And when we walked back to the harbour side by side I could see out of the corner of my eye that he kept shaking his head a little.
The first to catch sight of us were two ordinary seamen who had been aboard the Mimi. Their faces were moist with triumph, and each of them held out a small bottle half-filled with blood and bits of flesh. One of them contained half a finger.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘Souvenirs, doctor,’ they chorused delightedly. ‘The German captain’s blood, so we’ve got something to show off back home! Could you put some chemicals in there to stop
the stuff smelling?’
I was about to protest when the Commander gently but firmly gripped my arm. So I opened my bag and topped up the bottles with thymol, which ought to have a sufficient bactericidal and fungicidal effect.
However, it was now clear that the Kingani had sustained casualties, so I got on board as quickly as I could, only to see at a glance that there was nothing more I could do. A shell had pierced the gun shield, and the three men behind it - the captain and his number one and two had been literally blown to pieces. There was a pungent smell of cordite and the whole ship was spattered with blood, and in the midst of it all
- believe it or not - stood a little snow-white goat. This being the only living creature left on board, I took hold of its collar and led it to the rail, intending to take it ashore with me. The Kingani heeled over slightly under our combined weight, and the German captains mutilated body, which had been resting against the gun shield, slumped to the deck.
At that moment Spicer-Simson climbed aboard followed by a crowd of officers, ratings and natives, all of whom were jabbering and laughing excitedly. I was surprised to note that the Commander, who had so recently been sitting on the beach in brooding silence, was now in a thoroughly exuberant mood, and that he was revelling in the crowds attention. He paraded around the captured steamer, whose deck was one big pool of blood. Sucking in his cheeks and narrowing his eyes, he counted the number of hits aloud and arrived at a total of twelve.
‘Gunlayer Waterhouse,’ he called, ‘how many shots did we fire?’
‘Thirteen, sir.’
‘And twelve hits! Twelve hits out of thirteen. I call that pretty good going, don’t you?’
‘That depends, sir. I’m afraid we hit the water a couple of times’
‘Nonsense, my dear fellow, you can see the holes yourself!’
‘With respect, sir,’ replied Waterhouse, who’s a modest, honest individual. ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, most of those holes were made by shell splinters, so I wouldn’t count them as separate hits. Besides, the Toutou got a few shots off as well.’
‘My dear chap,’ drawled Spicer-Simson, ‘you still have a lot to learn. For one thing, the Toutou was well out of range; for another, I’m quite capable of distinguishing between a splinter hole and a direct hit, don’t you think? The whole thing reminds me of the time when I was a young gunlayer manning my seven-pounder during a naval engagement off Shanghai, in a force twelve and pretty heavy seas...’
While recounting this he bent over the body of the German captain, who was lying spreadeagled in his own blood, removed his signet ring and slipped it on to the third finger of his left hand...
My dearest Shirley, Captain Zetterland is now standing in front of me. His patience is exhausted, and he’s out of cigarettes as well! I love
you, I kiss you and miss you. It surely won’t be long before I’m home again. My health is excellent, by the way, discounting sporadic bouts of malaria, but my daily dose of one gramme of quinine works wonders against them.
Ever your Hother McCormick Hanschell.
21
What a Delightful Part of the World!
then came the day when Ada Schnee, the Governors wife, reappeared like a white rose in full bloom. She had travelled to Kigoma in a Pullman car belonging to the Central Line, bringing Kapitanleutnant Gustav von Zimmer a gift in the shape of a flatbed goods wagon laden with two of the biggest guns she could find in the whole of East Africa. Their barrels glinted dully beneath an overcast sky as the train skirted the harbour and pulled into the station. Ada Schnee had not come on her own, it should be added, but in the company of her husband, and coupled to the rear of the train were two carriages containing an armed escort: the 4th Field Company under the command of Hauptmann Karl Ernst Goring.
The train came to a stop precisely at the spot where von Zimmer and all his reasonably fit subordinates were drawn up on parade. Anton Riiter, Hermann Wendt and Rudolf Tellmann were standing in the front rank, as the Kapitanleutnant had instructed, clad from head to foot in well-fitting Imperial Defence Force uniforms. Everyone watched as the carriage door opened and the Governors wife appeared. She was attired in dazzling white as usual. Her pale blue eyes shone more youthfully than ever and the pearly teeth between her pink lips were still as immaculate.
‘What a delightful part of the world! she exclaimed, gliding down the steps into the red dust. ‘The beach, the bay, those trees over there - they remind one a little of Heligoland, don’t you think?’
‘True, my love,’ the Governor replied as he got down after her. His tone was studiously jocular. ‘Except that, to the best of my knowledge, flamingos and crocodiles became extinct on Heligoland a few years ago.’
Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer took a step forward, saluted, and kissed Ada Schnee’s hand.
‘My respects. Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see that the war has left your beauty intact. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re known in officers’ circles as the White Rose of Africa.’
‘You’re a flatterer, Kapitan!’ The Governor’s wife gave one of her trilling laughs. ‘Of course I’ve been affected by the war - we all have. A great deal, in fact. Last month, for instance, it deprived me of my home.’
‘The Governor’s mansion?’
‘Rubble and ashes. A British gunboat used it for target practice while we were away from Dar es-Salaam. Not that that would have mattered - we’re at war, after all. Still, my entire wardrobe got burnt, together with all the bedlinen and tableware, my photo albums and hairbrushes absolutely everything.’
‘My commiserations’
‘Commiserations, poof! The world has other problems at present, God knows. I simply had a few new gowns run up in Arabian cotton. I wouldn’t cut a good figure on Unter den Linden, but since I’m joining up in any case...’
‘We would welcome you as a recruit at any time, Your Excellency,’ said von Zimmer, smiling urbanely. ‘Whenever you like.’
Meanwhile, standing at attention in the sun, Anton Riiter covertly watched this chivalrous welcoming ceremony with malicious pleasure. Heligoland, the hand-kiss, officers’ circles, the White Rose of Africa... He knew how much self-control these courtesies were costing von Zimmer, who had suffered for months from raging headaches, virulent dysentery and agonies of heat rash, and what an effort it must have been for him even to smile politely.
Riiter entertained no such malicious sentiments towards the Governor, on the other hand. His main feeling was one of sympathy mingled with a trace of contempt. Schnee seemed to have aged considerably since their last meeting in Dar es-Salaam. His darting eyes roamed the ground and his mouth twisted this way and that as if his tongue were trying to extract morsels of food from between his teeth. He was
P
gripping his left hand with his right, probably to conceal a tremor.
As for the Governor’s wife, who seemed outwardly quite unchanged, she clearly attached great importance to behaving like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel at all times, regardless of the war, the murderous climate and the hostility of her natural surroundings, Riiter found that he was no longer fascinated by her: his sole emotion was lust. The Governors wife was a woman complete with thighs and breasts and buttocks, and he was a man who had lived alone for too long. He tensely awaited the moment when their eyes would meet, but that time had not yet come.
‘See what we’ve brought you, Kapitan,’ she cried, taking von Zimmer by the elbow. ‘Guns from the Konigsberg, which the British sank. We salvaged them especially for you.’
‘Calibre 105 millimetres, range eight nautical miles,’ the Governor amplified as von Zimmer climbed onto the flatbed wagon and squinted down the gun barrels with a professional eye. ‘They should enable you to sink any Belgian or British ships that approach the harbour with hostile intent before they know what’s happening to them. Stick one beside the harbour and the other on the Gotzen - it’s time she got a decent gun. Is she making better progress now?’
‘The ship
wrights are doing their level best, Your Excellency.’
Meantime, Hauptmann Goring had jumped out of the first of the two escorting carriages and, in a low, hoarse voice, ordered his askaris to fall in. Anton Riiter couldn’t help respecting the man. Although Goring’s eyes were more dark-ringed than ever and his lips the same unhealthy shade of red, his figure and movements were lithe and youthful and his spirit was clearly unbroken. It almost seemed that the war, which was robbing everyone else of their youth and ideals, had rejuvenated and invigorated him.
The lady and her two companions eventually left the guns and proceeded to inspect the guard of honour. The Governor and his wife walked on ahead, arm in arm, with von Zimmer and Hauptmann Goring following at a respectful distance. Riiter watched Ada Schnee approaching him step by step. Moving with her customary feminine grace, she submitted the black, brown, pink or sickly white faces of the men she passed
to a look of suppressed amusement. And when she came to the three Papenburgers, whom she had looked after with such maternal solicitude eighteen months earlier, she regarded them, too, with the same amused interest and total lack of recognition.
Wendt and Ruter exchanged wry glances after she had gone past, and even old Tellmann, who was still not uttering a word, gave them a surreptitious wink. But then von Zimmer and Hauptmann Goring passed by, and the Papenburgers stiffened to attention again. Although Goring hadn’t seemed to spare the guard of honour a glance until now, he halted abruptly when he drew level with Ruter.
Ah, the three northerners! In the army too these days?’
‘Yes, Herr Hauptmann,’ said Ruter.
‘Good, excellent. And your ship is finished, I see. That big tub over there is the Gotzen, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Herr Hauptmann.’
‘And the little boat that looks like a biscuit tin?’
‘The biscuit tin is the Wissmann,’ said Ruter. ‘There was another biscuit tin as well, but it disappeared a few days ago.’