1982 - An Ice-Cream War

by William Boyd

  He reported as much to his battalion commander, Colonel Youell, a brave weather-beaten man who felt he’d been personally let down by the Germans’ refusal to contest Salaita hill. Temple said that it was his considered opinion that the two hills would be extremely difficult to take without massive casualties; that it would be a good idea to wait until the thinking movement made its way round Kilimanjaro, at which point the Germans, seeing the danger of being cut off, would surely yield their ground.

  Youell ignored him. “It may sound sensible to you, Smith, but with respect it’s obvious that you’re not a professional soldier. We don’t want them to fall back. We must force von Lettow to stand and fight. We’ve got to engage him here precisely so that he doesn’t realize he’s being cut off until it’s too late.”

  Temple acquiesced, and asked for permission to visit his farm, just to see how everything was. Permission was refused.

  “I need you with me,” Youell said benignly. “You’re to be attached to battalion HQ. This is your country around here, Smith. I need your advice.”

  Why don’t you take it, then? Temple thought. Nobody in this army listened to a word he said.

  On the eleventh of March Temple stood uneasily with Youell’s battalion staff as the first wave of troops drew up on the flat plain some three miles beyond Taveta. There was Youell’s KAR battalion and the 2nd Rhodesians who were going to attack Reata hill, and the 130th Baluchis whose objective was Latema. The sky was clear and the morning haze had dispersed round Kilimanjaro, whose incurious snowy summit shone brightly in the distance.

  General Pughe was supervising the battle from a grove of trees on the outskirts of Taveta. He sat in a deck chair in a patch of shade with his boots off, feet propped on an empty ammunition box in front of him. Temple watched the troops marching off across the plain of corn-yellow grass towards the smooth contours of Reata hill. Youell and battalion head-quarters followed some way behind.

  As soon as the advancing files of men entered the brush at the foot of the hill the German machine guns opened fire. Youell soon caught up with his men who were pinned down on the lower slopes huddling and crouching at the roots of the thorn bushes. Progress was impossible. A runner was sent back to ask for an artillery bombardment, and soon the field batteries began to pound the slopes in front of them.

  Temple knelt beneath the flimsy shelter of the thorn bushes as the sun rose higher in the sky. About fifty flies seemed to be buzzing around him. Perspiration dripped from the end of his moustache. The constant crash and boom of explosions filled his ears. Battles, he thought, were unbelievably noisy places.

  Youell and his adjutant had a map spread on the ground and were trying to work out the positions of the battalion’s other companies and the 2nd Rhodesians. Temple felt an urge to perform a natural function but thought Youell might object to him lowering his trousers in what was in effect temporary battalion HQ. He certainly had no intention of crawling off into the bush for the sake of privacy.

  Presently the barrage lifted and the advance continued, making somewhat better progress through the openings and pathways cleared by the heavy shelling. Temple stuck close to Youell as they clambered, puffing, up the slope. All around him Temple could hear the pop-gun reports of rifles, and the yelling and shouting of the KAR askaris. The noise of gunfire was continuous and Temple assumed that at least some proportion of it must be coming in his direction, but so far there had been no sign of the enemy.

  They halted, gasping for breath, at a rock outcrop. Some KAR soldiers occupied the uppermost boulders. Temple calculated that they couldn’t be far away from the summit. He felt exhausted from the climb. Youell took off his sun helmet to reveal surprisingly boyish wavy hair.

  “Are we near the top, Smith?” he asked.

  “I think so, sir,” he said.

  “Let’s take a look.” Youell began to clamber up the rocks. He glanced back. “Come on, Smith.”

  Temple followed him up. They crouched behind the boulders. The firing seemed to have died down somewhat on their section of the hill. Youell spoke some words of encouragement to the askaris.

  “Have a look, Smith,” Youell said.

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes,” Youell said. “Find out where we are.”

  Temple took off his sun helmet. Although it was only cork and canvas it gave the illusion of affording some protection. Now he felt the sun warm the top of his head. His brains seemed to heat up. He had an unpleasant sense of the fragility of his skull, as if it could be as easily shattered as an eggshell. Cautiously he raised his head above the rocks. The summit was a mere fifty yards away. He could see a battered redout, crumbled earthworks, scattered sandbags and boulders. There was heavy firing somewhere to his right. It all seemed quiet ahead. Perhaps the Germans had pulled back again?

  Temple told this to Youell in a whisper.

  “Why are you whispering, Smith?”

  “Sorry sir.”

  “Can you see anyone at the summit? Are the Rhodesians there?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Well have another look, dammit.”

  Temple looked again. He thought he saw some figures moving behind the earthworks. He ducked down and put on his sun helmet.

  “The summit’s definitely occupied, sir.”

  “Us or them?”

  “I couldn’t make out, sir.”

  Youell called down to his adjutant to see if there had been any word from the Rhodesians. The adjutant said he’d heard nothing and sent off a runner.

  Then they heard someone shouting from the summit. In English.

  “Hey! You down there. The Germans have gone.”

  Youell smiled in triumph. “You see, Smith. We’ve done it.”

  He stood up. “Well done you men!” he called. “KAR here. Coming up to join you.”

  “Sir,” Temple cautioned. “If I were you I wouldn’t—”

  The fusillade of shots slapped through the air, pinging and buzzing off the boulders. Colonel Youell was spun round and toppled backward off the outcrop. Temple scrambled after him, the air suddenly loud with firing once again. The shocked adjutant turned his colonel’s body over. Temple saw the blood pumping strongly from a wound below his ear, pouring down his neck and congealing in the dust.

  “Oh God,” the white-faced adjutant said, looking up at Temple. “Do you think he’s going to die?”

  With the help of two askaris Temple dragged and carried Youell’s dead body down through the mangled thorns to the bottom of the hill. There they found a stretcher and tramped back through the knee-high yellow grass towards Taveta. The firing grew more distant as they moved away. A steady stream of injured men were stumbling or being helped across the plain. Temple looked back at Reata, its outline blurred by dust clouds, the firecracker sounds of the battle faint in the warm pleasant afternoon.

  At the casualty clearing station, the harassed medical orderly indicated a row of dead men laid out like game-birds after a shoot. Temple felt he couldn’t leave a colonel with the corpses of ordinary soldiers, so he had him taken back to Taveta in a motor ambulance. Once there they joined the procession of stretcher cases being ferried towards the field hospital, set up in the stable block of the police barracks. Their route took them in sight of Pughe’s brigade HQ. Temple ordered his stretcher bearers to change course. Youell’s death should be reported to the General.

  Pughe left his group of staff officers, who were all surveying the hills through binoculars, and limped over. He was smoking a cigar.

  “Yes? It’s, um, the American chappie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Smith, sir.”

  “Well, who’ve.” He started again. “Wha’s th’matter. Matter.”

  “Colonel Youell, sir. He’s just been killed on Reata hill.”

  “Good God! Eddie Youell? How the hell did that happen?”

  “Bullet in the head, sir. He stood up.”

  Pughe winced. He seemed to be swaying gently. He changed his stance slightl
y. “My God. Good God. Brave man, Eddie. God.” He puffed on his cigar. “What’s it like up there? Damned hard to make out. They’ve got the Baluchis well pinned down on Latema.”

  “They’re still on the summit, sir.”

  Pughe nodded, waved his cigar vaguely in Temple’s direction, turned round very cautiously and rejoined his staff.

  Temple left Youell’s body at the field hospital and dismissed the two askaris. He then went back to the KAR tents and got his mule-handler to saddle up his mule. The town was milling with troops, wagons, oxcarts and motor lorries as three South African battalions were brought in as reinforcements for the beleaguered men on the two hills. No one challenged or questioned him as he rode out of town and took the track that branched off to Smithville.

  It was three in the afternoon as Temple approached the familiar surroundings of his farm. Away in the distance he could see the placid peak of Kilimanjaro, the white snows reflecting back the afternoon sun. He could hear, very faintly, the distant pattering sound of gunfire as the assault on the two hills continued. Behind him rose clouds of dust on the road between Taveta and the new railhead as supplies and fresh troops were brought in. He seemed to be completely alone in the landscape. He had come across no pickets or patrols of either side. However, the thought crossed his mind as he drew near Smithville that it might still be occupied, being far enough away from the main British advance. He dismounted and tied his mule to a tree.

  He left the track and struck out into the bush in a wide semi-circle which would eventually bring him up behind the house. He realized that he had left his rifle somewhere on Reata hill. He was unarmed, apart from a large penknife he always carried. He took it out of his pocket and opened the blade. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do if he encountered anyone but he felt marginally less ill at ease now that he flourished some sort of weapon.

  He crept through the tall grass as quietly as possible. Soon he saw the remains of the shamba that had stood behind the house. It had obviously been burnt down some considerable time before. He paused, crouching behind the knobbled bole of a euphorbia tree. Across a forty yard gap of broken ground lay the house. He felt a sensation of enormous relief to have made it back to Smithville again. It was followed by an equally forceful sensation of tiredness, all the tension of the day, which somehow he’d been holding off, descended on him. If he lay down and shut his eyes he knew he would fall asleep immediately.

  From his position the bulk of the house obscured most of the view. He could see nothing of the other farm buildings—hidden anyway by the rise on which the house stood—and nothing of the sisal fields beyond. From what he could make out the linseed plots that led down to Lake Jipe were not the scorched wasteland he’d been expecting. He felt suddenly elated. Perhaps Smithville had escaped largely unscathed? Just the waggons and livestock, the trolley lines and the sisal crop the price he’d had to pay?

  He stirred himself into action and scampered from his sheltering tree into a small grove of dead banana trees nearer the house. He noticed that the tops of the trees had been neatly cut off to prevent them bearing any further fruit. Someone had been thorough.

  He peered through a gap between the fibrous trunks. He felt a little foolish, a fat sweaty man, trying to run as light-footedly as he could, a tiny blade gripped in his fist. But nothing, and no one stirred. He broke cover again and ran up to the house, flattening himself against the wall. He inched forward towards the kitchen door. The windows on this side were securely shuttered, a hopeful sign that the place was abandoned. He tried the kitchen door. It swung open. Still no sound. Everything was completely quiet in the afternoon heat.

  He stepped in. And stepped out again immediately, hacking and coughing loudly. The smell! He felt his stomach heave. He spat on the ground, and wiped his brow. Jesus, he swore. Shit. The house smelt like a giant’s shit hole. It was humming with flies too. Millions of flies, the air seemed solid with them. One thing was certain though. There was nobody in the house. Nobody with a functioning nose could last more than a few seconds.

  He calmed himself down. He took a huge breath and, holding it in, re-entered the kitchen. It was dark and all the shutters were closed. He blundered over to the windows and flung them open, then leapt outside to recharge his lungs. He peered cautiously in through the door. Every surface—shelves, table, chairs, cooking trough—was decorated with coils of human faeces, as was the floor. The air danced with black sated flies. Streaming plumes of them escaped through the newly opened windows. Taking a deep breath, and watching where he placed his feet, he went into the dining room and flung open the shutters there, before clawing his way outside again. He was like a swimmer bringing up treasure from a river bed. He could only do it little by little, as his breath lasted. It took him twenty minutes to open up the house. Not a single room had been spared. It looked as if a battalion had marched in, lowered their trousers and, on the given command, had shat where they stood.

  Temple felt exhausted and mystified. What was going on? He felt his head throbbing and pounding from all the breath-holding he’d done. He took a few paces back and leant dizzily against a banana tree trunk, overcome from his exertions. Who had fouled his home? Why had it been done? Unanswered questions tumbled in his brain.

  Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He gave a bellow of alarm and flung himself madly round onto the interloper, his hands clawing for the stranger’s throat, beating him to the ground.

  “Bwana!” came a terrified croak. “It is me, Saleh!” Temple released his grip. Sure enough, it was Saleh on whom he was now sitting. The little man seemed in unspeakable agony, his head jerking to and fro, his mouth gagging for breath.

  “Saleh,” Temple cried. “What’s wrong?” Salelis hands plucked weakly at Temple’s sleeves. “Bwana,” he gasped. “Get off. I beg you. I can’t breathe.” Apologizing profoundly, Temple got to his feet. Saleh lay motionless on the ground, limbs askew, as he fought to regain his breath. He sat up groggily. Temple helped him to his feet, and stood patiently while Saleh dusted off his ragged tunic. “Bwana,” he said finally. “A terrible thing has happened.”

  “I know,” Temple said. “I’ve just been inside.”

  “No bwana,” he said soberly. “This way.” He led Temple some way off to the side. As they walked away from the house the farm buildings came into view. To Temple’s relief they were still standing. A bit ramshackle but no serious damage was visible. The sisal fields had disappeared under weeds and grass but he could see the great spiky leaves poking through the vegetation. Reclaimable certainly, with some hard work. He was beginning to feel his luck had held out. Von Bishop, it seemed, had been as good as his word. He felt a pang of guilt over Mr Essanjee’s death. Had there really been a need to bring him all this way to make the assessment?

  Thoughtfully he followed Salelis thin body. Where was the man taking him? To his village? Perhaps the German askaris had laid it waste? But Saleh had stopped. With a sudden shock Temple realized they had reached his baby daughter’s grave.

  It had been crudely opened. The mound of stones scattered and the remains of the little coffin and its contents were strewn haphazardly around as though some larger beast had been digging there. On the wooden cross was set a tiny skull the size of an apple.

  Silently Temple and Saleh garnered the bits and pieces—brittle ribs like thin claws, vertebrae the size of molars—and replaced them in the hole. Temple picked up the skull. It was bleached and dried, it hardly weighed anything in his hand, a gust of wind might have blown it away. He laid it in the hole. With his boots he shovelled the earth in and then they rolled back the rocks.

  “When did they do this?” Temple asked.

  Saleh told him it was just before the soldiers left, two days ago. There were always soldiers billeted at Smithville, Saleh said, sometimes as many as a hundred. Two days ago they had all left. Temple felt his exhaustion returning. The sun was heavy in the sky. He thought it was time he was getting back.

  “Don’t worry, Saleh
,” he said, moved by the man’s woebe-gone expression. “It’s just bones.” He tried to say something comforting. “The baby’s soul has gone to heaven.” He thought he sounded like the Reverend Norman Espie. “Anyway,” he said, remembering, “Mrs Smith has a new baby girl now.” He patted Salelis shoulder. “A new baby.” He hitched up his trousers and let out a great sigh of breath.

  “We’ll all be back here soon,” he said, talking in English. “You’ll see, this war is nearly over. We’ll get the farm going. Yes?” He tried to cheer up the morose Saleh, who was now struggling to comprehend. “Farming again, Saleh, farming. Plenty of work. Get the Decorticator going and—”

  He turned abruptly on his heel and ran down the slope towards the Decorticator shed. Behind him he heard Saleh shouting, but he paid no attention. As he approached the wooden building a feeling of ghastly premonition built up in his chest. He stopped short, gasping for breath before the large double doors. He paused for a moment, willing everything to be all right. Then he swung the doors open.

  Temple walked disbelievingly into the large empty shed, his boots ringing out on the concrete floor. He moved uncertainly about the vacant space as if expecting any moment to make contact with some ghostly machine. Orangey wands of sunlight sectioned the floor, squeezing through slits and gaps in the plank walls. Temple looked at the archipelago of oil stains, the fixing bolts set in the concrete, a few inches of tattered canvas drive-belt.