The Rift

by H Schmidt

  In front of the staff car, a crater still smoking was being filled by a Pioneer Company, working quickly to keep the road open. As he drove on, the signs of destroyed German equipment. A wrecked machine gun lay on the side of the road. Around it pieces of the ordnance wagon that must have carried it. Two horses lay dead beside the wagon. Friederich could see the intestines of both animals. He glanced quickly at one, noticing the red mark on his forehead. Most likely it died at the hand of some person who loved animals as he did.

  Now he could hear the tack-tack-tack and thump-thump-thump of machine guns, the more irregular rifle fire, and explosions of mortars and grenades. To his right, a small hill. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed. The driver turned and headed off the road toward the hill.

  At the bottom, Friederich jumped out and climbed to the top. Pulling out his field glasses, it was easy to see where the German First Corps had concentrated its attack. To the north, he could see no troop movement. The First was battering the Russian right flank. To the southeast, his right front, he could hear the light artillery and small arms fire of the Third Brigade, firing at the supply lines and retreating Russian soldiers.

  It was when he focused his glasses to his south, not more than ten kilometers away. There, he could see the movement of Russian troops westward, passing the point of advance line of the First Corps. He spoke to himself but loud enough for the driver who had followed him up.

  “If they turn to the right, they can cut off the retreat of the First.”

  They ran to the car and sped in the direction of the command post where Colonel Vorster was directing the two brigades in their attack. The command post was only two hundred meters behind the German soldiers who could be seen moving across the open field. The damp air made the smoke of battle cling to the ground. Men would enter these clouds then reemerge. When Friederich saw the colonel, he walked quickly up to him, saluting.

  “Captain von Mecklenburg, Colonel. I have been sent by General Francois to advise you to break off battle at 1700 hours unless it is impossible to do so.”

  The colonel, a man twenty years Friederich’s senior, looked at the young man. “So the general informed me, Captain. Perhaps he wanted to let you see for yourself that war is not all maps and telephones.”

  “Sir, there is a hill back there which I used to look over the battlefield. Not more than ten kilometers to the south, the Russians have moved beyond the battle line. If they turn, they may be here in two hours, possibly less than that.”

  As they talked, they heard the whistle. Friederich felt himself being pulled to the ground by the colonel. Suddenly, the sky went black as thick clods of dirt showered the command post.

  Jumping to his feet, the colonel started barking orders, first to the young officers with him, then over the telephone. As the men scampered to horses, and rode toward the attacking soldiers, the colonel was on the line talking to Francois.

  “General, the Russians are less than ten kilometers to our south. Request permission to fall back to Gumbinnen.”

  He did not tell Francois he had already set the withdrawal in motion. As he talked, he began looking at the young captain. Friederich saw the expression on the colonel’s face. It was hard to read what it meant.

  “The general would like to talk to you.”

  “Do you concur, Captain.” Friederich had the feeling he was back at the Kriegsacademie.

  “Unless the troops to the south are engaged, General, there is only open ground between them and the First Corps. If we wait until they turn, they may be able to hit our flanks all the way to Gumbinnen.”

  As Friederich finished the call, he could see the colonel smiling at him. He was a big man with an open face and cheery blue eyes.

  “So, we have another Colonel Hoffman, do we? Let us hope for your sake and ours that you turn out differently.” He started to walk away, then turned to Friederich. “Come along, then, Captain; let us give you some practice in running backwards. Only fools move in one direction.”

  He put his hand on Friederich’s shoulder and leaned close to him. “Perhaps fools and Herrmann Francois. Herrmann and I have known each other for a long time. He has what many soldiers do not have, a heart. He is a great soldier but he will never be more than he is. He is not so good at dinner parties and much too quick to tell his superiors to go to hell.”

  ---

  Friederich was alone for the moment. He had been provided one of the rooms in the mayor’s house where General Francois had established their quarters. Friederich had arrived back at the temporary headquarters in the town hall at 1900 hours. He found all the officers in a good mood, intoxicated by the victory they had won that day. The wine and brandy had flowed freely, and Friederich was glad to get away. He could hear the last remnants of the corps arriving in Gumbinnen, bone tired, hungry, dirty, and full of the same exhilaration that had touched the staff officers.

  There was little breeze this evening, and the mosquitoes were hungrily swarming about men and animals. The gossamer clouds covered the stars with a haze. He thought about Ngordato then. The stars you could almost touch. He remembered everything, as if he were again leading them around the campfire; Johannes, Maria, and Willie. It had been fourteen years. He could remember Willie at the fence as they rode away from the compound that day. Sometimes he would imagine Willie, and in his imaginings he would see Mother, then Maria, then Willie again. They looked so much alike with their almost black hair and black eyes, their thin, delicate faces.

  When the general had asked about his mother, there had been that barely imperceptible glimpse of Willie. After a while, they did not cry when they talked of Willie. Father would sometimes remark that some lead or other had not panned out. He remembered the lead that had most excited them. Two seemingly credible sightings in Tabora and in Masai country around Ngorongoro Crater. But they had led nowhere. That was, Friederich had to think about it, more than fourteen years ago! But when someone asked about his mother, always in the back of his mind when he said she was doing well, he wanted to say, except for Willie. They all missed Willie, but he knew none so much as Mother.

  Chapter Two

  The Shambaa guards sat together on the bench outside Jim Fleming’s cell. The old man lay on his cot as he had for the last several days, too weak to walk about, refusing the opportunity to walk in the prison yard. Thousands of miles away from Biloxi, the old man was dying.

  It has been fourteen years since King Leopold’s police had taken him into custody in Kinshasa, then arranged his transport by boat to German East Africa. The trial in Dar Es Salaam had taken only two days; the sentence, twenty years in prison for the robbery of the Shinyanga Diamond Mines.

  A lot of time to think. Most of the time, he had thought bitterly of how close he was to going home in September 1901. If he had buried Harold, he might be free and rich. He wondered what happened to Joshua Bekins. Did he make it home? He had come to hope so, for knowing that something good came out of the robbery made him feel better. Most of the time he thought about the two women in his life. Jenny. He hoped she found someone and was satisfied that she did. Francie. He imagined Francie in a sister’s habit, teaching the kids in Stanleyville.

  For his fourteen years in prison, the commandant was a gentle little German named Aaron Frieburg. When Jim first arrived, the commandant would stop by to talk to Jim. All very official. One day the conversation came around to America and what Jim did there. In the beginning, the conversations would break off in bitterness. The commandant detested slavery, which he knew still existed in some parts of Africa and the Middle East.

  But as the stories began to circulate around the world about the cunning cavalryman, Forrest, and the daring bank robbers, Jesse and Frank James, Commandant Frieburg became enthralled with Jim’s adventures with the two men. That Forrest only knew Jim’s name and the James gang had shucked themselves of Jim in a matter of months, never entered into Jim’s stories or his answers to Frieburg’s questions.

  In the yea
rs they knew each other, the commandant never forgave Jim for slavery but he came to understand the South’s position on secession and to accept as shameful the treatment by the vindictive northerners of the beaten men who had fought for what they rightfully considered their land. But it was an uneasy acceptance, and the old prisoner and his keeper would repeat the same litany.

  “Dammit, Aaron, it wasn’t about slavery. It was about the northern money people wanting to keep the South under their thumb.”

  The little man would shake his finger at Jim. “But your cause was corrupted by the slaves you owned. Lincoln had the right on his side.”

  Sitting at his desk, the commandant could see the red sun rising over the ocean. He was worried. If Germany loses the war, he thought, I will lose my position here and have nowhere to go. He did not want to return to Germany. German East Africa was a beautiful place. Dar Es Salaam, thanks to Germany, a beautiful city. He thought about his prisoner and shook his head sadly. Now the old man was dying. Frieburg got up from his desk. It was time for his visit with Herr Fleming.

  That morning, Jim was thinking about the little boy. The Housman family would take good care of him. He knew that. In the world he had constructed for people he had known, little Billy was one he was most sure of. But lately, he began thinking about the poster. He had allowed the boy not to be reunited with his family because he was scared. He was scared then and each time he thought about it, he saw only bad things for him if he told the truth. Lying there, looking at the ceiling, he could hear the hard leather soles of Aaron’s boots. He turned his face toward the cell door, his rheumy eyes staring at the man standing there. As the guard unlocked the door and Frieburg came to sit in the chair next to the bed, Jim started to speak.

  As Frieburg listened, he found himself wanting to shout at the man, to take the walking stick he carried with him and smash it across Jim’s face. He had met Gustav von Mecklenburg on several occasions. On those visits by von Mecklenburg, the purpose was the boy everyone knew as Little Willie. Always, he would enquire about the prisoners who might have had some possibility of being implicated in or knowing about the kidnapping. The face of the man hid his emotions, but the sad eyes could not. He remembered being haunted for days after those visits, rechecking each prisoner carefully. And now the little man had found out that the prisoner who he had counted as his friend knew about the boy. For fourteen years he carried this thing with him.

  Now, he had to be careful to hide his feelings. He needed to know everything. What was the name of the family? Where did they live in America? What did they look like? How old were they then? What did David Housman do? Describe the boy to me again. How did you know it was him? What were you doing in Bakavu? Do you remember the name of the man who owned the restaurant? Are you sure about the name? In the small notebook he carried with him, the commandant wrote down each answer, often deliberately asking the question again in another manner to verify the answer. He watched Jim weaken. Two hours ago, he should have ended the conversation, allowing the man to rest. Now he must know everything.

  Frieburg could see a tiny stream of blood running from the corner of Jim’s mouth. His breathing became more shallow, the sound dry like a gentle wind on dead leaves. Frieburg noticed how intently the dying man looked at him.

  “This is important to you, isn’t it Aaron?”

  Again Frieburg fought his emotions. “Yes, Jim, it is very important. I promised Herr Mecklenburg I would give him any information I could find out from the prisoners. I had no idea it would be you.”

  Tears were rolling down the cheeks of James Alfred Fleming. “Can you forgive me, Aaron?”

  The commandant did not move. “Yes,” he lied.

  That night Big Jim Fleming died. Early next morning, Commandant Frieburg picked up the telephone.

  “I would like to place a call to Moshi, please. The name is Gustav von Mecklenburg.”

  ---

  Billy watched Ike across the ring. Gone was the wide grin he wore on liberty; the twinkle in those eyes replaced by the steely look he took on in competition. The most popular of the cadets, today he was Billy’s boxing opponent. Billy had been there when Eisenhower wrecked his knee almost two years ago. He had watched him struggle to walk, to stay at West Point. His legs gave the boy from Denver an advantage over the Kansan.

  Sportsmanship might require that an opponent not use handicaps of an opponent. West Point taught young men to exploit the weaknesses of their enemy. It was the right knee that cut short Ike’s football career at the Academy. Billy would circle to the right, forcing Ike to put weight on the tender knee. Ike surprised Billy by ducking in under his gloves and pounding both hands to his body. He felt his diaphragm harden as he tried to suck air into his lungs. He backed away, keeping his hands in front of him. Ike knew he had hurt him.

  Ike tried to close the distance, trying to cut off his quicker opponent. Billy began to circle, always to the right. As he moved, he began jabbing, bloodying Ike’s nose, causing his face to redden. Ike continued to rush Billy, to try to break through Billy’s gloves to get inside. Seeing that Ike was expecting him to continue to move to his right, Billy began to feint right and move left, then reverse himself. He watched Ike tuck his shoulders, and pick up his own pace. Billy looked at the eyes of his opponent. They seemed to bore into him. He could see the anger. He smiled. He had him where he wanted.

  Sergeant Cornwell taught self-defense, but a boxer must also attack. The left hand could be used to ward off an opponent, but the right hand must follow to punish an opponent. Billy began to pick up the pace, measuring the rhythm of Ike’s charges.

  He watched the eyes. He waited for Ike’s charge, then stopping and slipping inside the roundhouse right and chopping a right hand quickly to the jaw of his shorter opponent. He felt the satisfying jolt in his shoulder as his fist pounded the jaw.

  The next sound he heard was Sergeant Cornwell’s voice. He looked around him, forcing his eyes to focus. He placed the voice outside the ring. Standing above him, Eisenhower was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  Cornwell spoke sharply to Billy. “When you move in with your right, son, don’t expect your opponent to cave in when you hit him. Keep that head tucked. Move your waist and knees to get down. Keep your eyes on his hands. Eisenhower has got a football neck and a hard head. It’ll take more than one, son. Now get back up and let’s finish this thing right.”

  It had to be Ike’s left. Cornwell was right. Ike was strong and tough. Billy was known as a hard puncher by his classmates. Taller than Ike, the years of outdoor life traveling through the Rockies with his dad created a sinewy, one-hundred-seventy-pound frame. Yet the Kansan had put him on his back. Ike was stronger, he had to accept that. He would have to learn to win when he was outgunned.

  They fought for three rounds. Ike continued to hurt him in the body, but was never able to land another punch like the one that put Billy on his back. Billy continued to dance on the balls of his feet, throwing his right more quickly and moving inside the left counter. They ended in the middle of the ring, shaking hands and looking at the damage they had done to their opponent’s face. Aside from the dull ache in his head, Billy was alright. Ike had a bloody nose and a gash on his left cheek.

  “Good fight, Bill. My face is numb. Ready to go again, tomorrow?” “Cornwell says no. He wants me to stay out of the ring for a few days. He’s worried that you may have scrambled my brains.”

  “Since you always score at the top of your class, I guess they worry more about you. Me, they would have back in the ring, for sure.”

  “It might help if you would spend a little more time with your books, Dwight.” “You’ve got the brains; I’ve got the left hook.” Eisenhower was smiling at him. Billy was alone walking back to his quarters. He was thinking about the dreams he had been having over the last several nights. He was a little boy and all around him there were laughing black faces. The little boy was laughing, too. Suddenly the dream was filled with terror; the black faces began
to scream. He would awake, the cold sweat pouring off his body. When he was a little boy, he told Mother about the dream. She assured him it was nothing, and that soon it would go away. It had not.

  Not all of his dreams had frightened him. He remembered the dream where he was running across a field of high grass. Beside him, a tall black man with a red robe. When the man looked down at him, he remembered not being frightened. It was Adiru, who gave him a connection to a world that only he knew about, which he did not want to share.

  I had a happy childhood except for the dreams, he thought. There were children to play with. There were long trips into the mountains with Mother and Father. We would camp beside cold mountain streams on soft sage and grass meadows. Father would sit beside me, pointing out all the stars in the sky. It was then, too, that visions of campfires and stars would dance quickly behind my eyes and be gone. Once, I remember, I must have gone into a trance, because I was awakened by Father

  “Are you alright, Bill?” He was looking at me very concerned.

  “Yes, father. But just for a moment I thought I was somewhere else and I was looking at the stars, just like we are doing now.”

  I remember looking up at my father then, and he was looking at Mother. He said nothing to her, but his face appeared to be asking a question they did not want me to share.