by Alex Capus
The ships engineer on this patrol was young Wendt. The dark lake was smooth as glass, the night fine and windless, and the crescent moon’s reflection inscribed a thin white line on the surface between the shadowy coast and the Wissmann’s side. She seemed to be lying motionless in the water but was making nearly eight knots. Hermann Wendt felt contented. He had long ceased to ponder the war’s effect on the class struggle or the historico-materialist inevitability of his boat trips; his sole concern was that the engine should run smoothly and the steam pressure remain stable. He wrapped himself in a woollen blanket against the nocturnal chill, kept a sharp eye on the stoker, and hoped the Kingani would soon be found. He knew the six Germans and eight Africans in her crew by their first names and had become quite attached to them - and to the little white goat - during his last few months in barracks. After three hours the mountains of the Belgian Congo loomed up, dark and menacing, so the Wissmann turned south. The captain scanned the moonlit coast through his binoculars for hour after hour, on the off chance that the Kingani might be lying beyond the next rocky headland or in the next bay or river mouth. Late that night Wendt lay down in a corner sheltered from the headwind and went to sleep.
He awoke at dawn when the toe of the captain’s boot prodded his shoulder.
‘Wake up, Wendt! Enemy in sight, full steam ahead! Oil! Get some oil into that furnace and be quick about it!’
Wendt blundered aft to the cable tier to fetch the four oil drums he’d loaded especially for emergencies. On his way there he could actually make out two black specks on the horizon. The specks had grown a little bigger by the time he made it back to the furnace a minute later. He poured some oil over the firewood to boost its thermal energy, and before long the Wissmann was making eight-and-a-half knots instead of only eight.
She couldn’t do any better, though, and there was no escape. Kigoma harbour and the safety of its heavy artillery were eight hours away.
Wendt watched in horror as the enemy boats drew nearer minute by minute. He shuddered at the mechanical inevitability with which
the enemy were gaining on them, and he felt a nameless dread of their guns, which would soon, within an hour or an hour-and-a-half, tear him to shreds. His mortal remains would be blown into the water and, if the crocodiles didn’t get them, sink to the very bottom of this horribly deep lake, a watery abyss that extended deeper into the earths interior than the Indian Ocean; and at some point, maybe eight hundred or a thousand metres below the surface, in a world untouched by the rays of the sun, they would drift down into the field of vision of a sabretoothed sea monster whose maw was illuminated by its own phosphorescence; and the monster would devour and digest Hermann Wendt until nothing remained of him but the grey-green slime it excreted from its rear end; and that slime would sink to the lifeless bottom of the lake and become embedded in all the other layers of sediment that would accumulate there in the next few million years, to be squeezed upwards into a new mountain range by the pressure of one continental plate on another. Although frightful, this prospect was really quite uninteresting, even boring, because of its inevitability. The enemy boats were gaining on them with mechanical predictability and would be there within an hour or two; that was as unavoidable as sunrise in the morning or the full moon before Good Friday. The approaching boats were thus a problem for which there was no solution, so they weren’t really a problem at all. Being simply a source of fear, not grounds for thought, they really weren’t worth talking about.
The nerve-racking monotony came to an end after a three-hour chase. The two enemy boats, each flying the white ensign, remained out of range of the Germans and engaged in some gunnery practice. At eleven-thirty the Wissmann sustained her first hit, followed shortly afterwards by another shell through her boiler casing. Steam came pouring out, the oil-sodden wood caught fire, and water flooded in through a big hole in the ship’s side. Dazzled by muzzle flashes and deafened by exploding shells, Wendt clung to the rail as the Wissmann heeled over. Seconds later, when the ship slid bow first into the dark depths, gurgling and hissing, he did not accompany her on her journey to the very bottom of this horribly deep lake: he let go of the rail and struck out for the shore.
24
Waiting in the Mist
Albertville, 9 February 1916. Telegram to the Admiralty in London:
Toutou being under repair I chased and sank Hedwig von Wissmann with Mimi and Fifi yesterday. Chase commenced at 7.45 a.m. Enemy sank 11.15 after action of about half an hour. Enemy’s casualties: two white, three black. Prisoners: twelve white including captain; nine black. We had no casualties.
Signed: G. B. Spicer-Simson, Commander R.N.
This time Spicer-Simson nipped any celebrations in the bud. As soon as the Wissmann sank he took the survivors on board and gave the order to return to Albertville. He stood silently in the bow with his back to his men throughout the three-hour voyage. Once back in harbour he had the boats securely moored to the jetty and the prisoners taken to the Belgian camp. The onlookers welcomed him with yells of triumph, but he silenced them with a curt, horizontal chopping movement. It was shortly after half past two that afternoon when he strode briskly up to his hut, disappeared inside and shut the door behind him. Because 9 February 1916 was a Wednesday, however, the door reopened punctually at a quarter to four and his boy emerged with the rolled-up mat in preparation for his master’s customary bath.
As dusk fell that evening, Riiter and von Zimmer sat side by side on their zebra-hide chairs, gazing out over the orange-, pink- and lilac-tinged lake
and debating what to do. They had heard distant gunfire shortly before noon, and not long afterwards a rumour spread among the natives that a steamer had gone down with all hands off the Belgian coast. Riiter and von Zimmer weren’t sure at first how reliable this information was or how it could have crossed the lake, because the telegraph to the Congo was dead and all water-borne traffic had been suspended long ago. However, having learnt that many things in Africa were undreamed of by commonsensical Germans, they were inclined to take the rumour at face value. It did not, though, supply an answer to the question that interested them most: whether the ship that had sunk was an enemy vessel or their own.
‘We must go across and take a look,’ said Riiter.
‘Go across? What in, a rowing boat?’
‘We still have one steamer.’
‘Nonsense. You yourself made the Gotzen s gun barrel out of the trunk of a coconut palm, or had you forgotten?
‘We can’t just abandon our men.’
‘Of course not, but we won’t help them by deliberately putting our heads in a noose.’
‘There are three machine guns on the Gotzen!
‘Didn’t you hear that shellfire today, Riiter? Those were heavy guns 73s, 85s or even 105s. Our popguns and coconut palm would be useless against them.’
‘But that’s beside the point now, Herr Kapitanleutnant. We’ll go whether we like it or not, you know that as well as I do. And we’ll both be on board, we’ve no choice. We’ll go because we can’t sit here doing nothing, it’s not on.’
Commander Geoffrey Basil Spicer-Simson spent the night down at the harbour, waiting. He knew that the Gotzen would come because it was the only possibility. It was inconceivable that the German commander, whoever he was, would lose two ships in quick succession without trying to discover what had happened to them. If the gunfire had been audible
on the opposite shore, he would wait a few hours to see if the Wissmann returned home victorious and then set off in the Gotzen. Spicer-Simson estimated that the Germans would get to Albertville by four o’clock in the morning at the earliest, probably two or three hours later. So as to be sure not to miss that rendezvous, he had instructed his boy to take his camp chair and side table down to the very end of the jetty after supper, not forgetting his sherry and some bread and olives. So now he sat there smoking cigarettes, sipping sherry, twisting the signet ring he’d taken from the captain of the Kingani, and waiting. He ha
d dismissed the two Belgian askaris guarding the harbour and sent them off to bed. The windless night was damp and chilly. Towards midnight a mist descended on the lake. Now and then he was startled by some big fish leaping into the air splashing back into the water. Shortly before dawn, invisible roosters crowed in the mist. And then, as the mist was gradually thinning in the east, Spicer-Simson heard it at last: the throbbing hum of sizeable marine engines, which seemed to be approaching from the north. Before long he could also detect the hiss of a bow wave. A few minutes later he heard a clatter of boots behind him and the excited shouts of his seamen and gunlayers as they ran to the boats and prepared to cast off. He didn’t turn round, just went on staring into the mist whence the Gotzen, which he’d never seen before, was bound to emerge. And even when she finally did - even when the towering, pitch-black steel side of the biggest ship ever seen in the African interior glided past him at alarmingly close range, not a hundred yards offshore - he continued to sit there calmly. Unmoved by the shouts of his subordinates, who were more and more urgently requesting the order to attack, Spicer-Simson devoted himself to examining the monster. He saw the gold lettering on her bow and the mighty 105 millimetre gun, and was somewhat surprised to note that an ordinary soldier of some kind was standing in companionable proximity to the captain on the bridge. At first he wasn’t sure, but then his doubts were dispelled: the two of them had spotted him too. Seated in his canvas chair at the end of the jetty, a glass of sherry in one hand and a cigarette in a long holder in the other, he waved the hand that held the cigarette and the two Germans waved back.
Albertville, 10 February 1916. Telegram to the Admiralty in London:
I have seen gunboat Gotzen close enough to estimate speed which appears to be about 10 knots. This agrees with statements made by white prisoners. Armament said to comprise one 4 inch and four 3.4 inch guns. Do not feel strong enough to attack with any prospect of success.
Signed: G. B. Spicer-Simson, Commander R.N.
25
How Peace Descended on the Lake
and then the rainy season came round again. Swollen streams became raging torrents and hurled themselves over cliffs in mighty cascades. Lake Tanganyika rose higher and higher, transforming dust into mud and sand into quagmires. Those who ventured outside became bogged down after only a few steps; those who pressed on regardless were eaten alive by millions of mosquitoes, flies, tarantulas, poisonous snakes and millipedes; and those who had hoped to transport heavy military equipment overland were reduced to finding themselves a place in the dry and waiting for the rains to end. For months, hordes of British, Belgian and German troops were pinned down in barracks or makeshift bivouacs, staring idly out at the downpour and sweating and suffering and dying in droves from the tropical diseases the monsoon brought in its train.
But it wasn’t only on land that everything had come to a standstill. Commander Spicer-Simson no longer ventured out on to the lake now that he had set eyes on the Gotzens imposing bulk, never suspecting how defenceless she was since her main armament had been replaced by the trunk of a coconut palm painted grey. For his part, Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer also remained in port because native spies had informed him of Mimts and Toutous existence. He was unaware that the two fast motor launches had sustained so much damage that their guns had had to be dismounted.
So peace descended on the lake and the war took a breather. The only craft that ventured out again - hesitantly - were the Arab dhows that had vanished without trace at the outbreak of war. Spicer-Simson passed the time by drafting telegrams to the Admiralty and requesting that he
be sent a new steamer which would be a match for the Gotzen in terms of size, speed and armament. Meanwhile, on the other side of the lake, Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer took advantage of the standstill to prepare for the enemy attack that would inevitably be launched once the rains ended. He was assisted in this by the fact that the railway was relatively unaffected by the monsoon.
Every few days a train left Kigoma station and steamed eastwards to Tabora, where German colonists were assembling to repel the invaders. From there the men would vanish into the bush and wage guerrilla warfare in company with the Imperial Defence Force. The women and children would form an orderly column under Ada Schnee’s command and march off into captivity with their heads held as high as possible. Von Zimmer loaded the wagons to the brim with everything that couldn’t be allowed to fall into enemy hands: arms and ammunition first and foremost, but also oil drums, tools from the shipyard and the railway workshops, medical supplies from the hospital, and all the sheep, goats, chickens and pigs from the native village. Then came the merchandise belonging to local German traders and the traders themselves, together with their household goods, domestic staff and domestic animals, and finally, in batches, the men of the Defence Force including Private Rudolf Tellmann, who packed his things as silently as ever and boarded the train without a word of farewell. The barracks were now deserted save for the Kapitanleutnant, his friend Anton Riiter and a handful of askaris. Once Kigoma had been denuded of two-thirds of its inhabitants, von Zimmer ordered the askaris to dismantle all the telegraph wires and destroy the luffing-and-slewing crane in the harbour.
But the mightiest weapon of all - one that could not be abandoned to the enemy under any circumstances - was bureaucratic in nature. Von Zimmer went round the customs post, the district administrator’s offices and the hospital with a cart, scraped together all the official documents he could find and trundled them back to the barracks, intending to make a bonfire of them on the parade ground. Just as he was reaching for his matches, however, it occurred to him that, if the war took a favourable turn and German rule was restored, the files would be badly needed. So
he and Riiter went down to the yard, where some empty 105 mm shell cases were stacked beside the smithy. Together, they stuffed the documents into these and buried them under a distinctive baobab tree on the outskirts of the native village.
By now, all the Germans had left and most of the askaris had deserted. Kigoma’s only remaining inhabitants were natives indifferent to whose authority they were forced to accept: German, Belgian or British. On 22 July 1916 the last telegraph wire - the one that ran along the railway line to Tabora - fell silent. This told von Zimmer and Anton Riiter that Belgian or British forces had severed the track, and that no more trains would be travelling in either direction from now on. There was nothing for them to do but await the arrival of enemy troops. They had no weapons left with which to defend themselves, nor were there any more items of value to be conveyed to safety. The barracks were empty, the station platform had been blown up, the shipyard and harbour were unusable.
Only the Gotzen was still there.
Riiter and von Zimmer were sitting on the beach below the barracks. At dusk they had shared the last few quinine tablets theyd managed to find in the sick bay, then kindled an open fire and grilled a chicken that had strayed into the barracks that afternoon, clucking in bewilderment. After the meal they had cut each others hair and drunk the last of the Kapitanleutnant’s brandy. Now they were sitting in their zebrahide chairs, legs at full stretch and boots planted in the sand, gazing at the ship. A dark shape only a stones throw away, she rode at anchor in Nyassa Bay - idly, as if she were no longer quite of this world.
‘Pity about her,’ said von Zimmer. ‘A real shame.’
‘We’ve no choice,’ said Riiter. ‘She’s too big and we can’t dismantle her. There’s no alternative.’
‘I know, but it’s a pity all the same.’
‘It is.’
‘If we wanted, we could save ourselves the trouble.’
‘Simply push off, you mean?’
‘It wouldn’t matter from the military point of view. We’ve lost the lake in any case.’
‘But she’s our ship.’
‘True.’
‘Who knows what the Belgians would do with her?’
Von Zimmer smiled. ‘It’d be absurd to leave her here when we’ve stripped the
place of every last pair of pliers. Could you really do it?
‘Certainly.’
‘Without damaging her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Shouldn’t the engines be thoroughly greased first, to prevent them from rusting?’
‘Those engines are always thoroughly greased, Herr Kapitanleutnant.’
‘Forgive me. And she could be refloated later?’
‘Not by the Belgians. We could do it if we dumped the ballast overboard beforehand. And if we ever came back here.’
The next day, Anton Riiter, Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer and the thirty remaining askaris proceeded to rid the Gotzen of her hundred tons of sand ballast. They filled jute sacks with it, carried them up to the main deck and emptied the sand over the side. They worked all day, allowing themselves only a short break at lunchtime, when they finished off the food left on board. Shortly before sunset all the sand was in the lake and the Gotzen s hull was empty.
While the askaris were going ashore, Riiter went below and unscrewed the cover of the intake valve that supplied the engines’ cooling systems with lake water, which now came pouring into the engine room. The bulkhead doors were open, so it distributed itself evenly throughout the length of the ship. Before long the Gotzen was settling steadily. It was dark by the time water washed over the main deck and she sank, coming gently to rest eight metres down on the bottom of the bay - in an upright position, just as Anton Riiter had hoped. All that remained above the surface, which was seething with air bubbles, were the tops of the derricks and the lifeboat in which Riiter and von Zimmer had lingered until the last moment.