by Alex Capus
The Gotzen reposed on the stocks like the Ark awaiting the Flood. Rain beat a tattoo on the deck and superstructure, and its drumming reverberated in the dark, hot, humid bowels of the ship, where myriads of mosquitoes had taken refuge from the downpour. Anton Riiter and Hermann Wendt worked on in the airless gloom, installing steam pipes and electric cables by the light of paraffin lamps. Now that all the really big and elaborate jobs had been completed, they were often on their own at the yard. Riiter had paid off the two hundred native labourers for whom there was no work left. He had wanted to send them home, but Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer insisted that they fulfil their terms of employment, which indentured them for several years, and had promptly enlisted them as porters for the Defence Force. It was all Riiter could do to persuade von Zimmer to release the twelve Masai, at least, and allow him to retain the services of the two Bantu, Mkwawa and Kahigi, for whom he had developed a great affection during their long nights together in Wendt’s beer garden.
It was at this stage that Anton Riiter fell ill for the first time. The initial symptoms were loss of appetite and a leaden-limbed feeling of debility that steadily worsened. Then his head began to hum and burn and his body temperature rose to over forty degrees. He couldn’t sleep at night because the hot, stuffy air inside the net was as unendurable as the rampaging swarms of mosquitoes outside it. Lying naked on his zebra-hide bedstead, he tossed and turned and listened to the menacing silence of the night or lit the lamp and smuggled a book inside the net to while away the long hours till dawn, but his head was heavy and his hands trembled and the pages became blurred and displaced by vague thoughts that inexorably slid away to where he wasn’t: at home in Papenburg with his wife and children. And when he finally fell asleep, sweating and feverish, not to recover consciousness for several days and nights on end, he was haunted by nightmare visions that sometimes catapulted him out into the darkest depths of space or into the molten midpoint of the earth. In his lucid moments he saw Samblakira, who mopped his forehead and spooned gruel into his mouth, murmuring ‘Kula, kula.’ An instant later he would be riding hell for leather through gunfire, powder
smoke and spurting blood, or out on the barrack square in the midday sun, drilling until he dropped, and the Gotzen was made of blazing paper, and Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer was cutting strips of zebra hide off a cadaver with his own hands. Black spiders squatted on Riiter s face by night, red ants crawled around on him by day - and after two weeks it was all over. His forehead was cool once more, his eyes were glazed no longer. He got up and drank a cup of strong coffee. Then, still rather unsteady on his legs, he tottered down to the yard, where the askari sentry on duty told him that Wendt had also been laid low by fever.
Now that all the riveting had been done, Rudolf Tellmann hardly ever graced the Gotzen with his silent presence but remained in barracks. Always in uniform now, he performed his military duties uncomplainingly. He repaired walls, maintained the electric generator and dug drainage channels in the parade ground to carry away the unending streams of rainwater. Although he listened and nodded when spoken to, no word ever passed his lips. He spoke to no one, not even to Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer, who wisely left the ‘rum customer’ to his own devices and forbore to reprimand him. When the Wissmann went out on patrol, Tellmann accompanied her as ship’s engineer. He never showed his face in Wendt’s beer garden, and if he happened to bump into Riiter or Wendt he behaved as if he didn’t know them and hurried back to barracks.
So Anton Riiter and Hermann Wendt led a rather solitary existence. Now that the beer garden had become a morass they carried the zebrahide furniture down to the Gotzen and installed it on the bridge, where they created a comfortable, airy home from home protected by mosquito netting. From now on they spent their evenings there. Mamadou continued to supply the millet beer and Samblakira the meals. Mkwawa and Kahigi sometimes came to supper, and so, on occasion, did Mkenge the handsome Masai. At bedtime the party broke up. The Africans returned to their village and Riiter and Wendt walked back up the path to their huts. Later on, when it was dark and everyone was asleep, Samblakira would sometimes sneak out across the rainswept headland and disappear into one hut or the other - which one, neither man ever knew in
advance. Shortly before cockcrow she hurried home unobserved, and when Riiter and Wendt made their way down to the yard an hour later, side by side, they never said a word about her.
Great excitement reigned one day in mid November when a train crossed the mountains at last. Riiter and Wendt were down in the bowels of the Gotzen, busy fitting the second engines piston rods, when they heard a sound above the drumming of the rain: the whistle of an approaching locomotive. They hurried up on deck in time to see the train trundle past the station and come to a halt beneath the luffingand-slewing crane. Coupled to the locomotive were four flatcars, and on these, neatly cut up into four sections, lay a steamboat some fifteen metres long. The bow reposed on the leading wagon, the two middle sections on the next two, the stern on the rearmost.
Riiter sensed that this boded no good. ‘What’s all this?’ he said angrily. ‘What devil are they playing at this time?’
The dismembered boat was even smaller and more decrepit than the Wissmann. The steel bow plates were rusty, the brass pipes thick with verdigris, the deck-house timbers grey and fissured. Riiter couldn’t see what state the engine was in from where he stood, but he could guess.
‘No idea,’ said Wendt. ‘She won’t float, that’s for sure.’
‘I bet you we’re going to have to make her float.’
‘That’ll be the day! We could turn her into a hot dog stall or a children’s merry-go-round - even a pigsty, at a pinch - but that thing won’t float in a hundred years.’
‘We’re going to have to make her float,’ Riiter insisted. ‘Look, here comes trouble.’
Gustav von Zimmer had jumped down from the driver’s cab. He looked up at the Gotzen and beckoned to them with two fingers.
‘Well, Corporal Riiter, you’re looking cheerful again today.’
‘I wasn’t laughing, Herr Kapitanleutnant.’
‘Not properly, I know - you dour northerners never do. Still, I thought I detected a ghost of a smile. May I enquire the reason?’
‘It’s that thing.’
‘Ah, you mean...’ Von Zimmer indicated the four flatcars. ‘Gentlemen,
what you see here is the customs patrol boat Kingani, which will assist the Wissmann in defending our territory with immediate effect.’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘Dar-es-Salaam. Twenty years old. I managed to get her away just before the British occupied the harbour. I also salvaged a whole wagonload of personal equipment at the last minute, so you’ll be getting some uniforms at last. Report to the barracks for a fitting this afternoon. You too, of course, Wendt.’
‘Very good, Herr Kapitanleutnant. This dismembered boat...’
‘The KinganiV
‘I take it we’re supposed to make her seaworthy.’
‘Don’t worry, Tellmann will handle that, I’ve already discussed it with him. He’ll rivet her together in two or three days at most, if I interpreted his sign language correctly. How’s the Gotzen coming on?’
‘We’re making headway,’ said Ruter. ‘There are a few parts missing. If they turned up we’d be through in a week or two. Safety checks would take another ten days or so, and then - ’
‘There are parts missing?’ von Zimmer cut in. ‘There are parts missing, Corporal Ruter?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Important parts?’
‘The electric generator. And a box of switches and fuses’
‘The generator is missing? It was missing from the start, you mean, or has it disappeared?’
‘It was there the last time we checked three months ago. Now it’s gone.’
‘Gone? How can that be? Do you have an explanation?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Now pin your ears back, Corpora
l Ruter, and think carefully before you answer me.’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitanleutnant.’
‘I take it you’ve carried out a thorough search for the generator?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve searched every building and questioned all your men?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But it’s disappeared in some mysterious manner and you’ve no explanation for the fact?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I see. Well, we’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll find your generator, depend upon it. It’s an indispensable piece of equipment, I assume?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What would happen if the Gotzen had no generator?’
‘None of the electrical installations would work: lights, ventilators, electric hoists, ice-making machine. And, most importantly, the steering gear.’
‘The ship couldn’t be steered?’
‘Manually, yes, but that’s not good enough.’
‘I see. How much does this generator weigh?’
‘One-point-three tons’
‘Quite some weight to drag through the bush, eh? One wouldn’t get far.’ Kapitanleutnant von Zimmer looked over at the luffing-and-slewing crane, which was just lifting the Kinganis bow section off its flatcar. ‘Know what I’m wondering? Why anyone would steal such a thing. What could one do with it in the middle of the bush?’
‘Nothing at all, Herr Kapitanleutnant. It would be completely useless.’
‘Curious, isn’t it? Any explanation?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I didn’t think you’d have one. At all events, it would be best for all concerned if the thief brought it back - preferably after dark, when no one can see him. You agree?’
‘Yes, Kapitan.’
‘Tonight would be the ideal time. I’d strongly advise the thief to return it. It would be a really good thing if I didn’t have to go looking for it.’
Anton Riiter said nothing.
‘But I will if I have to. I’ll find that generator, Riiter, believe you me.’
Although it did not, of course, escape notice that a building had gone
up in smoke and a gun had fallen into the Thames, Commander SpicerSimson took strict precautions to keep his mission secret. He carefully locked the office door whenever potential members of the expedition applied to join it, and he pledged them to absolute secrecy before going into details. His wife Amy, too, breathed not a word to anyone except her friend Shirley Hanschell. Despite this, only a few days after the first recruitment interviews took place Spicer-Simson’s office was besieged by a number of shady individuals who had heard about the expedition in some pub or other and were keen to be present when a warship was hauled through the jungle.
At such times, Spicer-Simson dearly wished he was to be accompanied on the trip by a genuine friend he could trust. That was how, one morning, he hit on the idea of recruiting Dr Hanschell as the expedition’s doctor. Although a civilian and not really to be described as a close friend, he was the husband of his wife’s best friend and had benefited from years of medical experience in the tropics. Spicer-Simson picked up the phone, got through to The Seamen’s Hospital in the Royal Albert Dock, and told the operator to inform Dr Hanschell that the Admiralty urgently instructed him to report to Commander Spicer-Simson’s Whitehall office soonest in connection with a highly confidential matter. The operator scribbled a note and told a messenger boy to take it to the doctor’s ward.
Hanschell read the note and chuckled. Urgently instructed, highly confidential, report to... He didn’t really have time for Spicer-Simson’s shenanigans, he was far too busy. There was a hospital staff meeting to attend. Then he had to do his rounds and carry out three minor operations. On the other hand, he was curious to know what ‘highly confidential matter’ his eccentric friend could have dreamed up. Besides, it amused him, as a civilian, to be summoned in such a military manner.
‘Hello, my dear doctor!’ Spicer-Simson was looking exuberant and rejuvenated. He shook hands warmly and forgot to drawl, an indication that
he was in good form. ‘This is my colleague Major Thompson. We need have no secrets from him. He was originally appointed to command our expedition but couldn’t make up his mind. Isn’t that so, Major?’
‘How do you do,’ said Thompson, glancing up from his papers.
‘How do you do,’ said Hanschell. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you at your work.’
‘Nonsense,’ Spicer-Simson said briskly, ‘we aren’t disturbing him.’ He laid a hand on Hanschell’s shoulder - something he’d never done before. ‘The major will have all the time in the world to himself once we’re gone.’
‘Gone where?’ asked Hanschell.
‘On a secret mission,’ said Spicer-Simson. ‘You and I. A naval expedition. Overland into the heart of Africa.’
‘Africa?’
Major Thompson looked up from his papers and tapped his forehead. ‘A wild-goose chase of the first order,’ he said.
‘The Tanganyika business, you mean?’ said Hanschell. ‘Am I to go too?’
‘You’re... in the picture?’ Spicer-Simson was unpleasantly surprised.
‘My wife mentioned something of the kind.’
‘Shirley?’
‘Yes.’
‘She... knows?’
‘You’re taking a couple of boats overland to Lake Tanganyika, aren’t you? Amy told her.’
‘I see,’ said Spicer. He went over to the window and stood there with his back to the other two. Once he had recovered his composure he turned round again. ‘All the better,’ he said, brushing his annoyance aside with a sweeping gesture. ‘Then I’ve no need to beat about the bush. Hanschell, you’re just the person I need. You’re an expert on tropical diseases and an old Africa hand, and I know you to be a reliable man. I want you to accompany the expedition as our doctor, with the rank of lieutenant in the Royal Navy. You’ll be back home in four months, six at most. What do you say?’
‘I’m far from being a naval officer, Commander.’
‘Well, now you’re going to become one. Forget about that boring old hospital of yours. Stand to attention like this. No, like this! Good. Now let’s see you salute. Go on, salute!’
Hanschell demurred at first, but he played along and saluted.
‘Well,’ said Spicer-Simson, ‘what do you say?’
‘I’m flattered by your invitation.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘There’s nothing to think about, my dear fellow. We’re going into battle side by side! For God, king and country! To the great lakes of Africa, in the footsteps of Livingstone and Stanley!’
‘It all sounds very tempting,’ said Hanschell, who had realized only now that Spicer-Simson was in earnest. ‘I’ll sleep on it and let you know.’
‘You can’t sleep on it, Lieutenant Hanschell, there’s no time for that. We weigh anchor in ten days’ time. The matter’s urgent. We must reach our destination before the rainy season starts. You must decide now here and now.’
‘I’m sorry, then I’ll have to decline. The hospital can’t possibly find a replacement for me in ten days’
‘Nobody’s indispensable, my dear Hanschell!’ Spicer-Simson said triumphantly. ‘The Admiralty has taken the necessary steps. They’re already looking for an experienced man to take your place.’
‘Really?’
‘What you need is a uniform. Go to Gieves, they’re in the picture. Know where I mean?’
‘Yes, in Bond Street. Is the Admiralty really looking for a replacement?’
‘Has been since this morning. Tell Gieves you come from me and need a naval uniform. Khaki tunic, grey shirt, blue badges of rank. And make sure he doesn’t forget your cutlass’
‘My cutlass?’
‘Every officer in my unit will wear a cutlass’
‘Forgive me, Commander, but I’m a doctor. What am I supposed to do with a cutlass, remove someone’s appendix?
’
Spicer-Simson went right up to Hanschell and stuck out his chin. His
eyes narrowed to slits. ‘If I say you’ll wear a cutlass. Lieutenant Hanschell, you’ll wear a cutlass’
I see.
‘From now on, adopt the correct mode of address when you speak to a superior officer. The naval response to an order is “Aye-aye, sir.” Understand?’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
And in future, refrain from making facetious remarks about matters that lie outside your sphere of medical competence. Dismiss!’
‘Yes, Commander.’ To his astonishment, Hanschell realized that the decision as to whether he would take part in Spicer-Simson’s jungle expedition had just been taken.
H
Multicoloured Nigger Socks
the short rains were coming to an end and the sun sometimes shone for hours at a time. Anton Ruter and Hermann Wendt had just settled down to enjoy their nine a.m. break inside the mosquito netting on the Gotzens bridge when a pair of army boots came clattering up the iron steps. Seconds later Corporal Schaffler’s head - a bullet head sprinkled with carroty stubble - appeared over the top step. This was unusual. The corporal never showed his face at the yard now that he had no native labourers to escort there. Ruter was alarmed to note that he wasn’t grinning and didn’t put a forefinger to his cap in salute. His thumbs were hooked in his belt, his lips were tightly compressed, and he was breathing spasmodically through his nose. His narrowed eyes scanned the ranges of hills as if enemy troops were about to appear there at any moment. The corporal was clearly on an official mission. An unwelcome one.
