by Alex Capus
5 The ’tween-decks should be partitioned with bulkheads to prevent cargo from shifting in heavy seas.
6 The ship is prone to strong vibrations, especially at high speed. The propeller shafts must be replaced, reinforced, or balanced.
7 When fired with wood instead of coal, the engines are too weak to combat the strong winds that frequently occur on Lake Tanganyika. Either adequate supplies of coal must be provided, or the ship must be converted to wood firing.
8 The (British-made) steering gear is extremely unreliable.
9 The bunks are too short and too narrow. A sleeping mans arms and legs touch the mosquito net, enabling him to be bitten by the large numbers of mosquitoes that lurk in the dark corners of cabins. Recommend replacement of wooden bunks with easy-to-clean steel bedsteads of more generous proportions.
10 Both derricks are too short.
u The funnel’s updraught should be improved by making it some two metres taller.
19
A Decent Harbour
it was a great moment in Commander Geoffrey Spicer-Simson’s life when he climbed a hill at the head of his column and looked down on Lake Tanganyika, which stretched away to the horizon like a shimmering silver sea. He gave the signal to halt and shut his eyes for a few seconds, breathing deeply. Had he given his temperament free rein he would have exploited the momentum of the long trek, launched Mimi and Toutou forthwith, made for the German coast without delay, and shot the Wissmann to pieces in a surprise attack. Six hours to get there, an engagement lasting twenty minutes at the very most, then six hours back again, reaching Albertville harbour at latest by dawn the next day. That was how he had envisioned it a thousand times. Then the job would be done, his mission completed and the battle won. The Germans would rub their eyes in amazement and the Belgians be lost in wonder. He would muster his men for a brief farewell parade, then turn about and head for home - without Mimi and Toutou, of course, which would have done their duty. He would bequeath the pair of wooden tubs to the Belgians, together with such of the expedition’s equipment as would not be needed on the return journey. No more than seven weeks later he would enter London in triumph and clasp Amy to his bosom. He would receive the tributes of the Admiralty and the plaudits of the jubilant masses, take tea with the king and accept a peerage, and from then on he would spend his life giving lectures in all the best London clubs and attending gala dinners as the guest of honour. He would found charitable institutions, open schools, parks and streets that bore his name, publish his memoirs and write
testimonials for young naval officers. Finally, for Amy’s sake, he would privately and incognito undertake a world tour to every part of the British Empire and Commonwealth.
However, if Spicer- Simson had learned one thing in the course of his life hitherto, it was that giving his temperament free rein always resulted in problems. Determined to avoid these at all costs, he restrained his natural impulse on that hill and cool-headedly forbore to launch the hellfor-leather assault for which he yearned with every fibre of his being. He compelled himself to be patient because he felt calmly and firmly convinced that he had attained the apogee of his life on earth. He was at last on the verge of performing the heroic feat for which posterity would always remember him, at last in full possession of his powers and freed from all constraints. Nothing now stood in the way of his heroic endeavour: no pistachio-chewing nonentity or prudish colonial servants’ wives; only the enemy, whom he intended to attack head-on. This lake that lay glittering at his feet was his very own field of honour, on which, when the time for his unprecedented feat arrived, his finest personal attributes would come to fruition. Before long, all the joys and tribulations of his previous existence would be no more than a rehearsal for the drama destined to unfold here in the next few days, just as the years that followed it would be one long retrospect.
So nothing could be allowed to go wrong this time. He had all too often been thwarted by malign mischance, blind injustice or perfidious ill will. This time he would set to work with the utmost circumspection so as to rule out any stroke of misfortune. The essential thing was to take his time and avoid rushing things. He wouldn’t make the novice’s mistake of dashing down to the lake and running full tilt into a German trap. Until now the expedition had been laborious but largely devoid of risk throughout its 10,000 miles. It was the last hundred yards that would prove genuinely dangerous, he knew, because during the half-hour it would take to drag Mimi and Toutou down the beach and into the lake they would be visible for miles, as defenceless against attack as freshly hatched baby turtles and unable to exploit their most powerful weapon - their speed - until they were in the water. It was, of course, extremely
unlikely that the German steamer he had come here to sink would turn up at that particular juncture, but Spicer-Simson wanted to eliminate that risk and stay out of sight for the time being, so he established a camouflaged bivouac in the dip before the last range of hills. No campfires, no shouting, no hammering, no lantern-light.
While the men were pitching their tents Spicer-Simson reconnoitred the surrounding terrain. He would set up a machine-gun post here, have a trench dug there, and house their provisions safely in the branches of an old baobab tree. The whole camp would have to be enclosed by a massive zariba. As for Mimi and Toutou, they would be hidden in the bush and thoroughly camouflaged with branches until access to the harbour had been secured.
At that moment a man approached from the direction of the lake, waving and shouting at the top of his voice. Barefoot and unshaven, he carried a pink parasol, his shirt was fluttering outside his trousers, and his shaggy hair stood up all over his head. There were some indecipherable badges of rank on the sleeves of his tunic and he smelt of hard liquor. Having saluted and introduced himself as Major Stinghlamber, commander of the Belgian garrison at Albertville, the newcomer expressed his delight at the arrival of long-awaited reinforcements by holding his pink parasol over Spicer-Simson and, before the latter could defend himself, kissing him on both cheeks in the continental manner. SpicerSimson counterattacked by disengaging himself, subjecting the unkempt figure to an icy stare, and saying: ‘Now look here, my dear chap...’ Then he remembered himself. ‘Very well, Major. First let’s inspect your harbour and gun emplacements. Lieutenant Hanschell! You come too.’
The trouble was, there wasn’t a proper harbour, nor were there any gun emplacements. Spicer-Simson was beside himself. The Belgian military attache in London had assured him before the expedition set out that the harbour was in excellent condition, and now there wasn’t one at all. What the Belgians called a harbour was simply the mouth of the Lukuga River with a few rowing boats and dhows grounded on its banks, and, in their midst, the wreck of the Alexandre Delcommune.
‘I don’t quite understand, Major Stinghlamber,’ Spicer-Simson said
sharply. ‘Where’s the jetty? Where’s the artillery to defend us from enemy attack? Where are the breakwaters to protect us from heavy seas?’
The Belgian major grinned beneath his pink parasol and scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Well, we’ve sited two 85 mm guns on either side of the river mouth - one there and the other there, you see? And when a storm blows up we drag the boats a little further up the beach.’
‘I’m shocked, Major. I shall submit a report to your superiors’
‘My superiors are fully aware of the situation. Commander. Please remember we aren’t in England. Things don’t always go by the rule book here. This is Africa. One has to - ’
‘I know perfectly well where we are, my dear fellow, and I know what must and mustn’t be done in Africa. I shall only launch my boats in a decent harbour.’
‘But there isn’t a decent harbour, Commander.’
‘So I see.’
‘The only decent harbour on this lake is the one at Kigoma, and that’s firmly in German hands.’
‘Then we’ll build one.’
‘What did you say, Commander?’
‘I said we’ll build a decent
harbour.’
‘It would take months’
‘If that’s how long it takes, Major, so be it. Yet another reason to waste no time and start on it today - well, tomorrow, let’s say Today we’ll draw up the plans. I still have two hundred natives and twenty-eight white men under my command. And you?’
‘About the same.’
‘Excellent. My officers will all lend a hand, and so will I myself. We need a quarry, we need explosives and men to haul the stone.’
As though to justify Spicer-Simson’s caution, the same night brought a storm that snapped tall palm trees, sent ancient baobabs crashing to the ground, carried away tents and mud huts, and lashed the countryside with horizontal sheets of rain. The normally placid lake reared up into foaming breakers that swept away rocks and trees and fishermen’s huts. Spicer-Simson savoured the sight with quiet satisfaction. Had he obeyed
his original impulse that afternoon and hauled the boats down to the beach, Mimi and Toutou would now be lost - sunk or smashed to pieces on a reef. The expedition would have failed and so would he. Once and for all.
Telegram dated 28 October 1915 to the Admiralty in Whitehall, London, cabled via Leopoldville and Cape Town:
Arrived Albertville on Lake Tanganyika today. There being no decent harbour, either here or at any other military establishment, will not launch the boats for the time being, but make preparations to construct a suitable installation. The short rainy season has already manifested itself in the first tornadoes and the so-called harbour at Albertville is obstructed by a reef only two feet below the surface. Construction of a jetty essential, launching o/Mimi and Toutou postponed for six to eight weeks.
G. B. Spicer-Simson, Acting Commander R.N.
Spicer-Simson discovered a granite rock face in the hills behind the coast and gave orders that blasting should take place precisely on the hour from sunrise to sunset every day. This ritual regularity would not only obviate the time-consuming need to warn the native porters before each firing but encourage them to convey the loose spoil down to the bay during the hour that remained until the next detonation. From now on, with the regularity of a Swiss watch, the shores of Lake Tanganyika were shaken by hourly explosions. From dawn to dusk, 450 men trudged back and forth between the quarry and the bay, their handcarts or bare hands laden with lumps of rock. Within a week the jetty, which was designed to extend north-east in a graceful curve so as to afford the greatest possible protection from the southerly gales, was already jutting into the lake for fifty feet. It was rumoured among the natives that the British intended to build a causeway right across the lake and attack the Germans dry-shod.
And then the Germans themselves steamed over to investigate the explosions, which must have been audible on the eastern shore whenever the wind was blowing from the west. Spicer-Simson had been expecting them from day one. Every time he pushed a handcart down to the
beach he paused to scan the horizon through his binoculars for the telltale plume of smoke from a German ship. Now a ship had appeared, not on the horizon but impertinently close at hand - no more than a mile offshore and heading south. Spicer-Simson saw at once that she was an absurdly innocuous-looking tub in a pitiful condition. She was making six knots at most and couldn’t possibly have any heavy ordnance on board.
‘Hey, soldier!’ he called in French to the man ahead of him, a Belgian sergeant. ‘Is that the WissmannV
‘No, mon commandant , it’s the Kingani. The Wissmann is bigger.’
‘Much bigger?’
‘No, just a little.’
‘And the GotzenV
‘That’s bigger.’
A little bigger?’
‘No, mon commandant, much bigger.’
It wasn’t until he got to Albertville that Spicer-Simson had learned there were three enemy vessels on the lake, not just one. His orders until now had been to come here and sink one decrepit little steamer. If one little steamer had turned into two it made little difference, but the Gotzen was another kettle of fish. No one, not even the Belgians, had known of her existence until recently. If she was really as and big and powerful and fast as rumour had it, and if she really carried guns of such aweinspiring size, Mimi and Toutou would have a hard time going up against her. Spicer-Simson realized this, but he wasn’t going to worry his head about it for the time being. His orders were to sink the Wissmann, and he would conscientiously carry them out. Everything else could wait. He removed his binoculars from their case and submitted the Kingani to close inspection. The steel hull was rusty, the paint on the deckhouse behind the funnel peeling. There was a gun mounted on the foredeck and two officers in white uniforms and white sun helmets were standing forward of the funnel. One of them was looking through his binoculars like Spicer-Simson, the other holding a camera.
‘Look by all means,’ Spicer-Simson said to himself. ‘Take as many
photos as you like. All you can see is four hundred natives and a handful of white men wheeling barrowloads of rock around. You’d like to know what it’s all in aid of, naturally. We’re creating a harbour, that much is obvious, but why? As a berth for what ship? That’s what you’re wondering and scratching your heads about, because you shot the Belgians’ only vessel to pieces, didn’t you? You can’t tell it’s the Royal Navy creating a harbour here because I instructed my men to work in civilian shirts and trousers, and you can’t see my boats because I, Acting Commander Geoffrey Spicer-Simson, was far-sighted enough to conceal Mimi and Toutou in the bush. Just wait, you brace of Huns - just wait until the harbour’s finished and my two little boats are afloat. Then have the cheek to steam past here in that rust-bucket of yours!’
Spicer-Simson replaced his binoculars in their case, gripped the handles of the handcart, and resolutely pushed it along. Another four weeks’ barrowing rock, five at most, and his hour would strike.
Telegram dated 22 December 1915 to the Imperial Secretary, Cape Town:
December 11th. Owing to violent violent storm harbour has been damaged. Launching of boats will be delayed by one week.
Signed: Acting Commander G. B. Spicer-Simson, R.N., Albertville.
20
Humble Victor and Loud-Mouthed Loser
Albertville, 27 December 1915
Dearest Shirley,
My friend Captain Zetterland of the Belgian Medical Corps informs me that he has at long last got hold of a courier who will take some mail back to Europe with him, so I’m hurriedly entrusting him with all the letters I’ve written you in the last few months. I’ve numbered them in red pencil and in chronological order, just in case you want to leave the exciting question of whether I’m still alive to the very end. Well, the secret is out: I’m still here and thinking of you constantly, you know that. I drew my first breath the day we met, and I shall draw my last if ever you should leave me. Zetterland is waiting outside my door - I must be very, very quick!
So here, in great haste, is my account of the last few days, which I shall always remember as the strangest Christmas of my life. I told you in my penultimate letter how happy we were when, after two months’ toil, the harbour was finally finished. My last letter described what celebrations there were when we fetched Mimi and Toutou from their hiding place and launched them in a matter of only twenty minutes. It only remains for me to report on my Christmas, which was quite eventful. Although I myself always looked on idly, as is my way, I was witness to the most heroic courage and the most deplorable barbarity, watched some brilliant generalship in action, and saw into the heart of a humble victor and a loud-mouthed loser - and all this, as you have doubtless guessed, in the person of that unfathomably simple soul, Commander Geoffrey Basil Spicer-Simson. But let me tell you about it all from the beginning (quickly, though! Captain Zetterland has just lit his second cigarette).
Christmas began on a cheerful note. Naturally, there was a lot of cheering and back-slapping when Mimi and Toutou were finally afloat. It may have been utterly senseless to haul two motorboats overland for two thousand miles
, but it was certainly no mean feat, so we held an impromptu party at which we deservedly congratulated and toasted one another in lukewarm champagne, which the Commander had brought along specially for the occasion. The only strange thing was that he himself didn’t drink with us or join in the mutual back-slapping. Instead of drinking with us he stood a little apart, sipping his champagne, and when spoken to he smiled vaguely without taking his eyes off his two boats. He was so subdued I began to fear he might be sickening for something, but when I asked if he was feeling unwell he said: ‘On the contrary, my dear Hanschell, on the contrary.’ While the party was still in progress he quietly laid his glass aside and went down to the jetty to satisfy himself that Mimi and Toutou weren’t leaking and that the engines were running smoothly and the guns properly mounted.
The following day, Christmas Eve, was as un-Christmassy as you could possibly imagine. The sun beat down mercilessly on the thatched roofs of our mud huts from early morning onwards, the cicadas were chirping away in the baobab trees, and there wasn’t a Christmas tree or turkey anywhere - nor any children with shining eyes. My next-door neighbour, a red-haired Irish sailor, had decorated his hut with all kinds of greenery. I was just brushing my teeth outside my hut when the Commander walked past and caught sight of these decorations. ‘What’s this,’ he drawled, ‘a whorehouse? Take that stuff down and burn it.’
The first trial runs and firing tests had been scheduled for that afternoon, and Spicer-Simson insisted on my accompanying him. The boats had taken on no water and were very manoeuvrable, but they attained a speed of only thirteen-and-a-half knots, or considerably less than the twenty they made during that trial run on the Thames six months ago. Spicer-Simson watched the mechanics with furrowed brow as they feverishly screwed away at the inlet valves, cleaned the spark plugs and air filters and checked the cable assemblies. I kept an eye on him, expecting him to make a quixotic scene of some kind, but when all the mechanics’
