by John Wilcox
‘Wait,’ breathed Fonthill.
The men cautiously walked up the beach and then one of them pointed to where some ashes from the fire still smouldered. He turned and shouted back to the officer.
‘Now,’ cried Simon. The three Mausers sounded as one. It was impossible to miss at that range and the three Germans crumpled and fell onto the sand. The officer immediately gunned the engine of the launch, swung the tiller around and the craft swung back out into the channel. Jenkins’s rifle sounded once more, however, and the helmsman slumped over, pushing the tiller back so that the craft swung round again and surged up onto the sand, where the engine coughed, spluttered and died.
‘Pull it up before it slips back into the water,’ shouted Fonthill, and Mzingeli, closely followed by Mizango, hauled up the craft so that it nestled snugly halfway up the beach.
Fonthill ran to the four inert Germans. He put his fingers to each throat in turn. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘Good shooting. Sad, but we had to do it. Mzingeli, wade out a little past the spur there – watch out for crocs – and make sure this boat was not one of a fleet. I doubt it, but you never know. Now, we must get rid of the bodies again. Into the jungle, this time, 352. Be careful of snakes but we must tuck the bodies out of sight, where they won’t float out again.’
The grisly work was soon done, with Mizango helping them.
Jenkins nodded to where the black man was hauling one of the dead Germans by the heels, almost nonchalantly into the undergrowth. ‘Poor old bugger must think we’re fightin’ this war all on our own, like. Must be used to dead bodies by now.’
Mzingeli reported that the channel seemed deserted and they all climbed into the launch, Simon returning for a moment to pick up the discarded German naval caps that had been left on the edge of the undergrowth and throwing them into the launch.
‘We have saved ourselves more tramping through that blasted jungle, anyway,’ he said. Then his brow furrowed. ‘I’ve just got to learn how to drive this damned thing. Now let’s see.’ He looked up at Mzingeli. ‘Can you and Mizango see if you can push the boat into deeper water, while I start the engine?’
The controls were set aft, by the tiller, and seemed simple but they were marked, of course, in German. He dredged his mind for the remnants of the language he remembered. ‘Hmm. “Start”, of course, must be start and this stick seems to be a simple gear lever, with “Rückwärts” meaning reverse.’ He looked up. ‘Did we get the Germans’ rifles?’
Jenkins held one of them up. ‘All aboard, Captain. Let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t much like this island. But don’t hit any crocs. I’ve grown quite fond of ’em.’
Mzingeli and Mizango pushed the craft back into the water, so that the propeller was well and truly submerged, Simon turned the start switch and the engine coughed into life. He thrust the gear lever back and the boat backed out into the channel.
‘Right,’ he called. ‘I intend to go slowly, up to the northern tip of this island. 352, use the boathook as a sounding pole …’
‘I mean lower it into the water, as you did with your pole in the canoe. Do it every fifty yards or so, so that we can measure the depth of the water. It means that we shall have to sail in mid channel, in plain view of both shores, but it can’t be helped. Right,’ he thrust the gear lever forward and opened up the throttle, ‘here we go.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘We’ve still got the German flag up at the back.’
‘Leave it. It will give us precious time if we pass a gun emplacement on the shore.’
‘What if we meet another German boat?’
‘Hope that this one goes faster than that one does. But put one of those sailors’ caps on and throw me the other. Mzingeli look in that little locker by the bow and see if there is something to eat and drink in there. Oh – and keep the rifles ready.’
Fonthill set the German officer’s cap at a jaunty angle and steered the boat towards mid channel. He knew that he – and the others – would look incongruous, dressed in what were left of their fishermen’s garments, now torn and hanging in shreds from the ravages of the thorns and sharp branches of the forest. He tore his off and gestured to Jenkins to do the same, hoping that any German observers would think that they were sunbathing. It was a forlorn hope but the best he could do. There was no way they could disguise the black skins of Mzingeli and Mizango.
Then Mzingeli threw back to him two dirty white naval tunics he found stored in the forward compartment. Holding the tiller with his knee he donned one and threw the other to Jenkins. Now, at a distance, they looked like a German boat, manned by a German crew, plus two natives. They had a fighting chance, at least, of reaching the mouth of the delta.
So the launch continued its serene voyage up the Kikunja Channel, Fonthill keeping the engine revs low so that the bow wave that curled back to lap the forest on either side of them was modest and the exhaust note muffled. Jenkins poled regularly, finding the channel deepening, and it was not unpleasant cruising in this way, for the passage made by their progress through the humid air gave them some relief from the heat of the sun at midday. Mzingeli had found a small package of German frankfurter sausages in the bow locker and these they shared.
For some time now, Mizango had been keenly looking ahead. Now, as the channel began to narrow he called out to Mzingeli.
‘He say,’ said the tracker, ‘that small island splits the channel ahead and makes it much narrower. German guns likely to be on either side.’
‘Damn!’ Fonthill frowned. ‘Thank him, Mzingeli. Put down your pole, 352. You and Mzingeli pick up your rifles but I will want Mzingeli and Mizango to duck down below the gunnels out of sight of the shore when I tell you. It is likely that we shall have to run the gauntlet under fire before we get to the open sea and it could get rather hot and noisy. If so, I shall just jam the throttle open and go like hell. If that happens, 352 and Mzingeli blast away at the shore positions with your rifles. Mizango stays low at all times. Translate please.’
An air of expectation now descended onto the launch and gone was the air of a gentle day out on the Thames near Bray. Fonthill settled the German cap more firmly on his head and opened the throttle slightly. He narrowed his eyes the better to see ahead.
Ah, yes. The island had now appeared – no, dammit – there were two, so decreasing strongly the distance between the channels. And which one to take? Both seemed incredibly narrow.
Then Mizango, still looking ahead, called back. At the same time he gestured to the starboard with his hand.
‘He say,’ shouted Mzingeli, ‘that right channel is narrower and less deep, so no ships expected to come that way. So he think no German guns on shore either side there. But he don’t know for sure.’
‘Thank him. Now get down. I am going through.’
Fonthill opened the throttle slightly so that the speed increased but only by a little. He wondered how quickly this old stately launch could go if she were really put to it. Well – they would soon find out!
He gently leant on the tiller, pushing it to port and the snub nose of the boat inched towards starboard, aiming for the centre of the channel, which was, by the look of it, only about one hundred yards across – perhaps one hundred and fifty. The foliage on the narrow southern tip of this island seemed undisturbed and, for a moment, he felt relieved. But only for a moment.
A voice in guttural German suddenly challenged him from the right. Then the snouts of two heavy German machine guns came into sight. Thank God, they seemed unmanned, except for one sailor, outstanding in his white garb against the green of the jungle, who stood between them. The man called again, waving this time, gesturing, it seemed, for them to pull into a little inlet by the guns.
Simon waved back, shook his head and pointed ahead. He shouted something in what he hoped sounded like German and gently opened the throttle.
Suddenly, the foliage opened and six sailors rushed through it to their guns, three to each. They settled down behind the triggers and whe
eled them round to follow the passage of the launch.
‘Right,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Shoot at the buggers.’ At the same time, he knelt low and pushed forward the throttle. For a heart-stopping moment the launch did not respond, then, like an elderly racehorse spurred once more into life, she bounded forward, sending Simon falling back against the stern. At that moment Jenkins and Mzingeli opened fire.
There was no response. Scrambling to his knees, he saw that the German crews were feeding their long belt of cartridges into their guns. How disgraceful that they were not prepared already! Where was that German efficiency he had heard so much about? But Jenkins, his naval hat characteristically hanging from one ear, was shouting at him.
‘Can you stop this bloody thing from swinging all over the place? We’re shootin’ into the trees, look you.’
Suddenly, the German guns stuttered into life and Simon felt the breath of bullets winging over his head. Too high, thank God! The bow of the boat now rose as she pounded into the waters, once placid, now rippling with the effect of the tide coming in from the delta mouth. At the same time, the two rifles from the boat began replying, until they rounded a bend in the river and were safe and away.
‘Well done,’ shouted Simon. ‘Anyone hurt?’
Mizango’s eyes shone white in his black face but he was grinning. Jenkins shook his head. ‘But I shall be sick if this thing keeps bouncin’ about like this.’
Fonthill eased back the throttle. They were now out of the narrow channel and he could see ahead the sun glinting on the open sea. In the distance, out near the horizon, he could make out the indistinct shapes of two of the patrolling British warships. They were out!
‘Better pull down that German flag,’ he called out to Jenkins. ‘And see if you can find a bit of white rag or something like that we can hoist in its place. I don’t want to be sunk by British guns. Throw the German hats and tunics overboard. They’ve served their purpose.’
Within the half-hour, he was sitting in the stateroom of Admiral King-Hall’s flagship, HMS Hyacinth, reporting to the little man.
‘My God, you’ve done well, Fonthill,’ cried the admiral. ‘So how far into the delta do you think she is moored?’
‘About six or seven miles down the Kikunja Channel. But you won’t be able to get down there, going directly. There are two islands blocking the way.’
‘So what do we do?’
Simon took out his well-creased map. ‘The obvious passage is to sail down south here, down the Simba-Uranga Channel. Trouble is that the water level falls down to as little as five feet at low tide, so you would never be able to get near enough with cruisers carrying six-inch guns – which you will need to sink the Königsberg. There is one solution, though.’
A slow smile spread across King-Hall’s face. ‘I think I know what you are going to say, Fonthill.’
Simon’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes?’
‘Monitors. Am I right?’
‘Absolutely, sir. I am no sailor and certainly no gunnery expert, but as I understand it, these strange vessels are virtually gun platforms, drawing only about five feet but able to mount six-inch guns. No good, of course, in anything like a seaway but the waters of the channels are placid. You should be able to get near enough to fire at the Königsberg, even over an island. But …’ he paused. ‘I suppose it would take months to get them shipped out here from home.’
The admiral’s grin widened. ‘My dear Fonthill,’ he said, ‘you have something in common with our worthy First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr Winston Churchill.’
‘Oh really. What’s that?’
‘An inventive mind. Churchill has had the same thought. Two monitors – the Mersey and the Severn – were found at Malta. Churchill ordered them to be towed through the Suez Canal and down the African coast. They have just arrived and are being fitted out at Mafia.’
‘Ah, that’s splendid. But can they do the job, do you think?’
King-Hall’s monocle gleamed in the late sunlight. ‘Well we are painting ’em green to help them fit into the background. We’re stuffing ’em with empty kerosene tins below decks to maintain buoyancy if they get hit, and piling sandbags around their conning towers etc. They’re not small, of course. They measure 265 feet in length and they displace 1,260 tons, yet they only draw just five or six feet. Ideal for the job, really.’
‘So it seems. And their guns?
‘Each of ’em carries two six-inch guns, two 4.7 inch guns, four 3-pounders and six machine guns. They bristle with armaments. Enough anyway, I would think, to sink this bloody cruiser.’
Fonthill thought for a moment. ‘They are, of course, self-propelled?’
‘Oh quite. They may seem to be just bloody gun platforms, but they are ships.’
The frown on Simon’s brow deepened. ‘By the sound of it, it is not going to be easy to manoeuvre them in these tight channels. I think you will have to anchor them as near as you can get to the target and then fire blind, so to speak.’
‘Not quite. Now you have told us where the ship is moored, we can pinpoint its position by aeroplane. We have more efficient machines now and I hope they can spot for the guns, radioing back where the shells are falling and so on.’
‘Ah, that sounds excellent, sir. So …’ Fonthill returned to his map. ‘When you intend to attack, perhaps you could create a diversion somewhere else along the coast and then send the monitors in down this channel, the Simba-Uranga. But they will almost certainly be too ponderous to navigate round this island, behind which the Königsberg is hiding. I think it should be possible to anchor the gunships on the blind side of the island, so to speak, and to shell the cruiser over the top, with the air machines spotting for the guns.’
‘Exactly. But we need to know two things.’
‘Sir?’
‘We need to know the depth of the channel all the way down to the Königsberg, to make sure that the monitors can get down it. If they run aground halfway down, they will be at the mercy of the small torpedo-carrying boats that I understand the Germans have set up as part of their defences – like the craft that you came in on. As I understand it, you were not able to take soundings down this particular channel?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. What’s the second thing?’
‘We need an exact measurement of the rise and fall of the tides at the entrance to the delta. They could play a crucial role in deciding whether we can penetrate far enough down the channel.’
A silence fell on the little cabin. Fonthill’s features registered his dismay. ‘And you will want us to go back to do all this measuring …?’
‘Afraid so, old chap. The German shore defences – as you have experienced – are fairly extensive and sending in our small boats to do the job would be tantamount to offering them up as sacrificial lambs. A native fishing boat on the other hand …’ He left the sentence unfinished but shrugged his shoulders and offered both hands out beseechingly.
The silence returned. Then Fonthill nodded. ‘Well, my chaps won’t be exactly delighted to hear that we must run the gauntlet of crocodiles, hippos and trigger-happy Germans again, and neither am I, for that matter.’ Then he grinned. ‘But if it has to be done, I reckon we’re the very best Portuguese fishermen to do the job for miles around. How much time do we have?’
King-Hall removed his monocle and polished it vigorously with a snowy-white handkerchief while he thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we won’t have the monitors ready for at least a couple of weeks and we ought to give them a few days to practise gun-to-aircraft co-ordination. So … let’s say three weeks.’
‘Phew. That’s not long and there’s much to do.’
‘Sorry, but my ships that are poncing about off the mouth of the delta in case the Königsberg comes out to fight are urgently needed to chase U-boats in northern waters. We need to sink this damned German cruiser quickly so that we can free them. Do your best, Fonthill. I am sure you will.’
‘Very good, sir. We’re all filthy, though. Time f
or a bath first.’
The admiral stood. ‘Of course. You will need to hire some new dug-outs from wherever this native feller of yours has his village – my purser can provide funds in German currency. I suggest you do that first thing in the morning. My launch can take you there. Then get fishing again the next morning. Right?’
‘Right, sir.’
So it was that Fonthill and his three companions slipped down the side of the Hyacinth before dawn two days later and resumed their precarious positions in the two canoes, now in danger of shipping water as they rolled in the choppy seas off the delta. Dipping in their paddles they made for the opening of the large Simba-Uranga Channel, turning to port as they neared the headland to skirt what Mizango said was a German heavy-gun emplacement on the mainland to starboard.
The work upon which they were now embarked was repetitive, arduous and dangerous, demanding as it did that they took their soundings and measurements almost under the noses of clearly visible enemy gun positions onshore, while also pretending to fish – in shallow waters inshore where the shrimps were to be found.
Thinking through their brushes with the Germans, Fonthill realised with relief that none of the enemy had survived, of course, to warn of the presence of English spies posing as Portuguese fishermen. To that extent, then, they were reasonably safe, particularly as the waters at the opening to the delta were studded with native boats fishing there.
The problem lay, however, in plotting the depths of the channel further into the delta, where the locals rarely fished. Nevertheless, their luck held for two and a half weeks until, when their work was nearly done, they were taking soundings deep into the delta off the large island of Kikunja, on the opposite side to where the Königsberg was moored.
Jenkins had just put his sounding pole inboard and was making a note of the depth – a dangerously shallow 5.6 feet – when the distinctive noise of a German marine diesel came from behind a promontory that jutted out to their right.
