The Storm That Shook the World

by Walter Soellner

  Markus decided to climb back into the cockpit, to help avoid the mosquitoes, and he could have a roll or two, some cheese, and a beer. He settled in, munching his meal and watching the elephants. With a full stomach, the beer, and the heat, he dozed off in no time. His head rested on the edge of the fuselage as he snored peacefully.

  Sometime later, as he stirred, he sensed something. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut. He opened his eyes and scanned the lake shore. The elephants were gone.

  As he turned to look back down the beach, a mouthful of jagged teeth flashed before his eyes as his head wrenched violently to the side. Howling, gnawing, snapping jaws were all around him. Fortunately, he had put his leather helmet back on before he ate to help ward off the mosquitoes. It was ripped off his head along with a small patch of hair. Instinctively, he grabbed for his revolver, pulled it from its holster, and fired directly through the wall of the fuselage. A death howl rang out.

  He spun around as he raised his arm in a defensive position above his head, just in time to have it slam into the side of the head of a jackal that had leaped the seven feet up to his open cockpit.

  “Jesus!” he yelled as he fired again. The beast fell backward onto another just below. Two more were on the lower wing, the nearest crouched, ready to spring. Markus raised his revolver, aimed, and fired. The nearest jackal fell backward from the force of the bullet slamming into its body. The second one leaped off the wing but was not quick enough to avoid a bullet into its hip. A slow death awaited him—if his fellow jackals didn’t tear him to pieces first.

  “Christ all mighty! Where did they come from?” he gasped. “That was a hell of a scare!” He laughed it off nervously, as he tenderly touched his head wound. It’s stopped bleeding; that’s good. Ja, so Markus, time to get out of here!

  He stepped out of the cockpit, onto the wing, revolver in hand. He looked around, then reached back into the cockpit to the control panel, flipped the ignition switch, and pulled out the choke. He hopped to the ground and quickly walked around the wing, cautiously kicking the body of the nearest animal, and bent down to retrieve his helmet.

  He turned, reached up, rotated the propeller into the proper start position, and forcefully pulled down. Thankfully, the engine started on the first pull. He quickly ran back around and climbed in just as the engine sputtered. He stabbed at the choke, pushing it all the way in. The sound of the engine evened out.

  Before he landed, Markus had specifically selected a landing site with plenty of length for takeoff. Now he opened the throttle full and the whirling blades pulled the craft forward. He was airborne in less than a minute. That was a close call, he thought to himself as he circled back around the landing site in time to see a dozen red-skinned buzzards circling lower and lower toward the kills. The four dead jackals lay where they fell, with three new arrivals sniffing the carcasses.

  “You’re welcome to them!” he shouted and laughed as he flew northeast down the lake.

  Kreigskarte von Deutch-Sudwestafrica, 1904

  CHAPTER 28

  Friendly Encounter, Holes in the Sky

  The most up-to-date maps that Lieutenant Mathias had available to him were created in 1904 because of the uprising of the Herero and other native tribes. The German colonial troops had virtually no reliable maps before then. Charts that showed more than settlement names, locations and roads, ports and railroads, were nonexistent.

  Comprehensive “war maps,” as they were called, produced in record time, showed detailed topographic features. Knowledge of mountain ranges, swamps, deserts, water holes and wells, rivers, and many other vital bits of military information, including passes through mountains, was vitally important. Markus had these. Unfortunately, they were only good while he was over the German colony.

  Now, over Southern Rhodesia, he had nothing. And the same would be true when he crossed the frontier into Portuguese East Africa. Following the Zambezi River was a sure way of knowing where he was. He knew that if he just followed the river, it would flow into Portuguese territory—and hopefully to safety and help on his way to German East Africa.

  The last information the commander in Windhoek received was that the King of Portugal, while officially an ally of Great Britain, endorsed the Cairo Code of non-hostility between colonies, for neutrality in Africa. Markus hoped that agreement held and that Portuguese East Africa would remain neutral.

  Markus traveled about a hundred miles down the lake. He watched thunderstorms over the Muchinga Mountains off to his left and felt the air temperature change. He simply enjoyed the sense of safety, far above and away from snapping jaws and the other dangers he left behind.

  Wait till I get to East Africa and tell Levi about that last experience, thought Markus, a grin on his face. He’ll think I made it up! We’ll have so much to talk about. It was easy for any pilot to daydream on long flights, and Markus was as susceptible as any. His plane drifted down in altitude so that it was about six hundred feet off the surface of the lake, but it was right on course. Markus peered over the edge of the fuselage and saw several native fishermen below. It was a tranquil scene. His eyes followed the edge of the lake northeastward and saw several boats, three or four, in a line in the far distance. They appeared to be crossing the lake.

  He knew that north of the end of the lake was Lusaka, a substantial village and regional trading and market town. He also knew it was about forty-five miles distant, a considerable way in a region with virtually no roads. The easiest way to cross-country travel was to follow animal tracks, many quite wide, made over hundreds of years.

  Markus had seen many of these trails from the air. Traders on the way to market, he thought.

  The white puffs did not register for several seconds. The sounds were absorbed by the vastness around them. But he did hear the distinct sound of bullets zipping by him and knew immediately the “traders” were British or South African military.

  “Verdammt!” he exclaimed as he banked his aircraft sharply, made a complete U-turn, and then another, so as to put himself back on route but way to the east of the hostile boats. He could see them still shooting by the puffs of smoke, but he knew he was far out of range of their guns.

  “How in hell did they know I was coming and that I was German?” he said to himself, as he squirmed in his seat a moment. They must have sent word from the village ahead to Lusaka. Or maybe when they overran Windhoek, someone tipped them off, or maybe it was at Schuckmannsburg. Well, it doesn’t really matter now; I’m out of range.

  He flew on, following the river and knew he’d better find a place to set down for a refueling soon. As he progressed east, the countryside became much more lush and green. This terrain is so different from the ranch and most of our western colony, he thought. I wonder why Conrad chose such a barren landscape to raise his family. He could have homesteaded in a much more hospitable place. Mysteries.

  He located a long strip of beach and set the aeroplane down after circling around the spot, checking the landscape for any signs of humans. There are going to be animals, he thought, as his aircraft glided to another smooth landing.

  As he turned off the engine, he decided to make camp here for the night. He reloaded his revolver as he stood on the wing. His eyes surveyed the area, up and down the beach. Let’s build a fire, he thought to himself, a big fire. During the hour he spent gathering wood to last the night, he decided actually to build two fires near his aeroplane: one on each side, with him sleeping under the wing with his revolver out and ready.

  He purposely cut some green wood that burns slowly and creates a lot of smoke. Best to keep the bugs away and probably certain animals, he speculated.

  Markus got a light tarp out of the fuselage, along with half a hard Thüringer Rostbratwurst sausage, more rolls, cheese, a large tin cup, and a pouch of ground coffee. He walked to the edge of the water, scooped up water, and looked down the beach.

  “Ah—trouble,” he said aloud. Fifty yards down on the water’s edge, a group of little animal
s were drinking as half a dozen more emerged in the descending darkness. “Monkeys … or baboons, probably.”

  Mathias family members, particularly on his mother’s side, had the habit of talking out loud when alone. He had picked up the habit or trait or whatever it was. Levi walked in on him innumerable times and asked who he was talking to. It always led to a laugh.

  “The fire should keep them at a distance, the little buggers.” Near his foot was a thick branch, half-submerged in the water. He reached down, grabbed it, and dragged it back to his campfires. “More smoke!” he grunted as he pushed the wet end into the fire nearest his “guests.”

  Settling in with his helmet on, stretched out under his tarps, clutching his Thüringer in one hand and his hot coffee in the other, Mathias felt secure. He also had his revolver lying next to his head. He stoked the fires, and for now, there was not a mosquito in sight. His half-eaten Thüringer rolled out of his hand as he slipped off to sleep.

  The coolness and silence of early dawn found the airman up and brewing more coffee. The monkeys were all about, but none came close enough to be hit with another rock. that Markus had bounced off the shoulder of one daring critter. After munching half of his remaining supply of rolls and more cheese, the electrical unit officer of the First Bavarian Army Corps, headquartered in Munich, on special assignment to the Imperial wireless station in Windhoek, German South West Africa—now blown up—decided to relieve himself.

  He had to admit the monkeys were cute little creatures, so he spontaneously lecture them in a serious military tone: “One of the first procedures a soldier learns, when in the field and no latrines are dug, is how to relieve himself. Taking a piss is no problem.” Markus proceeded to demonstrate to his attentive audience, of fifteen or so monkeys, the proper way to take a dump in the field.

  “First of all, comrades, you always take your gun along.” He scanned his audience. They were all attentive.

  “Next, you squat down, making sure your britches are out of the way so you don’t shit on your pants.” He performed this maneuver for his guests’ edification.

  “When finished, comrades,” he explained, “you never leave your business behind for your fellow soldiers to step in, or all hell breaks loose.” He got up, pulled up his trousers, but just to his knees, and kicked sand over the steaming pile. Only half-upright, he continued his lecture.

  “A soldier should not be tempted to wipe his ass with any of a variety of leaves and grasses unknown to him.” He stared at the monkeys. They were all staring back, and probably thinking he left them a present—at least that’s what Markus thought they were thinking.

  “Several of these unknown leaves and grasses have either stickers on them or give a terrible rash just where you don’t want one.” Markus was having fun and suppressing a laugh at his own performance.

  “You, in the back, pay attention!” One of the monkeys in the front actually turned around and looked back. Markus burst out laughing as he staggered over to the edge of the water. He hunched down again, with his backside facing the lake.

  “Very important, men. Don’t do this where you go to get your coffee water.” He washed himself in the lake. Several monkeys came down to the shore, reached their hands in, scooped up water, and drank.

  “I thought I told you not to do that!” he yelled as he fell over, laughing hysterically.

  With all his gear stowed in preparation for takeoff, Markus checked the gasoline level with a stick, knowing he had to refuel.

  “Less than a quarter tank, just as I thought.” He threw away the stick, stuck himself halfway into the fuselage, and reached for the two remaining cans of gas.

  Expecting the heavy weight of a full can of gasoline, Markus fell backward, dragging a hollow-sounding can out with him.

  “Holy Christ, what happened?” The can was almost empty. He quickly examined the sides and saw a bullet hole a few inches above the bottom on one side and a higher hole on the far side.

  “Jesus!” He sloshed the can to get a sense of how much gasoline was left. “Maybe one-tenth of a can.”

  He jumped back onto the wing and dove deep into the fuselage, reaching for the last can. He got his hand on it and gave it a tug. It had weight, but as he tipped it to slide it forward to get it out, gasoline poured out of a hole three quarters of the way from the bottom. “Verdammt!”

  He gently slid the can and pulled it out. After examining the hole and looking at the other can he realized, “That bullet went through both cans! Verdammt! That’s half my remaining fuel gone.” After refueling with his diminished supply of gasoline, he lowered a stick into the tank.

  “Three-quarters of a tank, max. I better start looking for a place to ‘borrow’ some gasoline. Which way to go? With what fuel I’ve got, I’m pretty sure I can make it to neutral Portuguese East African territory, but that part of their colony is probably almost completely uninhabited.”

  He kicked sand into the fire as he continued his one-sided conversation: “I could fly over Lusaka, see if there’s any evidence of automobiles. I can’t imagine there would be any aeroplanes there. I wonder what Levi would recommend; he always gave me good advice … Right, that’s in the wrong direction, and there aren’t even any roads, so why would there be any gasoline? It’s east to the Portuguese then!” It was as if Levi was there with him for a moment. Markus smiled at the thought.

  As before, he prepped the controls, pulled down on the propeller, hopped aboard, and was off into the rising sun. As his aircraft rose into the beautiful morning sky, he saw, far off on the horizon, dark storm clouds directly ahead.

  The rainy season, he thought. I’ve never flown in the rain. It’s not recommended. He laughed to himself. I’ve got a feeling I’ll still have fuel when that storm overtakes me. First time for everything.

  Markus had no way of knowing when he would cross into the relative safety of neutral Portuguese territory, or even if the Portuguese were still neutral, but he did know that he only had several hours of flying time left before his craft would be on the ground. He flew at moderate speed to conserve fuel. He tried to find wind currents he could use to propel him along. Dark clouds were dead ahead.

  The BaTonga People

  CHAPTER 29

  Darkness Descends

  Just keep it steady. Keep going, my little flying wireless. He knew he was low, very low, on fuel, and now, with the pelting rain and winds, it was hard even to keep a steady course. His goggles steamed up on the inside, with rivulets of rain on the outside. He had to bring his compass almost up to his eyes to see the needle.

  Clouds hugged the smooth hilltops and rose from the great savannah he was passing over, so it was hard to see the ground. “I may run dry any time … I’ve got to stay low to see a landing site.”

  His engine sputtered several times, drenched by the deluge. Each time, he thought, That’s it. I’ve got to put her down. I’m losing altitude. But each time, the engine kicked in, and his aircraft rose again.

  Now the sputters continued in a steady staccato. He could visualize the last of the gasoline sloshing around in the tank every time the aeroplane bumped or swayed in the turbulent air. I’ve got a minute or two left, he told himself. Through driving rain, he strained to see the ground—what vegetation, what surface, what open area?

  He didn’t know what hit him until much later. The BaTonga found him, only because their hunting party was camped nearby. Rain poured out of thundering clouds, following flashes of lightning. Markus dangled in the air from the wreckage of “the big bird of the sky” as his rescuers called the tangled and broken aeroplane.

  One of the hunters had just moved his shield to a better position to deflect the rain when he saw the huge “beast.” He let out an alarm cry, and the others looked to where he was pointing with his spear, just as the dark shadow against the sky slammed into the upper trunk and branches of a tree. With no gasoline, there was no fire, but even in the storm, the BaTongans heard the crash.

  They looked at each other,
conversing briefly, then got to their feet in the pouring rain and cautiously crept toward the strange apparition. The seven hunters spread out as they approached the strange scene. Markus was unconscious, hanging upside down out of the shattered fuselage. One wing was pointing straight up with the stump of a branch punched through it. The other, broken in many pieces, lay scattered in a small debris field, including the engine, still steaming in the pelting rain.

  The BaTonga hunters stood in silence for a few moments. Several approached the steaming engine and poked it with their spears. They returned to the group, conversed again, and then looked up at Markus. Finally they laid down their spears and shields and built a human pyramid, three men high, to reach the lowest branches. From there, two of the hunters climbed nimbly up to the white man.

  They lifted his head gently and did other things to determine if he was still alive. One of them called down to the others for further discussion. Five of the warriors took off their long, woven, robe-like blankets that encircled their bodies.

  They tied them together and to the end of a spear and threw it up to the wreckage. They extracted Markus’s body carefully from his precarious position and skillfully lowered him to the ground.

  Several days passed before Markus opened his eyes slightly. Everything was a painful blur. Every time he breathed, he felt the worst of it, with aching shoulder and thumb. Mercifully, when he closed his eyes, he slipped into a numbing sleep.

  When he finally woke again, he could smell wood smoke and human smells. He felt a hand behind his neck that gently lifted his head, and he sensed a bowl of water pressed against his lips. He drank eagerly, slurping the liquid down his dry throat, while staring at two beautifully formed black breasts hanging over him. They were oiled and gleaming in the dim light, and many colorful necklaces swayed with her every movement. Because it was so striking, a large pendant stood out. It was of a fierce-looking, dragon-like snake carved from bone or ivory. He wondered what it meant.