Chapter 1: Hildegard

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Historical, Slow,

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1: Hildegard - Set during the Great War in German East Africa, the story documents the exploits of Lieutenant Wolfgang Ritter. After his ship is scuttled he joins the forces of the renown guerilla leader Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck. Charged with the defence of the small colonial town of Rungwa, the Lieutenant is responsible for the protection of it's citizens, including a rarity, 5 white women.

The three men lay low in the underbrush. Wriggling free, the khaki-clad white man, crouched low in a run up the little rise in front of him. Laying flat down in the red earth, he peered through the binoculars at the beach.

"Nshombe!" he called to one of his companions, "at the double, man."

A black man followed the white officer up the hill. Carrying a fully loaded Mauser rifle, he leapt easily up to the officers position.

"Send the boy to Captain Wahl," the white officer told him, "two battalions have landed and are deploying in the groves to the south. 3 transports offshore, more troops coming ashore in boats pulled by two steam launches. Grids... let me see... L3 to L10. Pass that on as quick as you can."

Nshombe scrambled back down the slope and repeated the message to his other companion in Swahili.

Another shell moaned overhead and the two soldiers ducked instinctively. Together they watched the water spouting ineffectually among the throng of boats. The figures on the beach lay down until the howitzer shell passed, then continued hauling themselves, and their equipment ashore.

Far out to sea they saw a flickering from one of the low, grey ships followed by the rumbling of concussion. The white officer and his black companion pressed themselves into the earth as the Destroyer shells rushed inland. The ground shook momentarily as they thumped into the hills somewhere behind them. Looking up, Nshombe grinned at the officer.

"Gessler will not be pleased, Lieutenant sir. That was close to his plantation," he told the officer.

"Let's hope he's finished harvesting the coffee," the officer replied.

Just then there was a movement behind them and a group of Askaris, African soldiers, emerged from the bush with the rest of the equipment for the observation post. They were accompanied by an army lieutenant, Johann Rauche.

"Hi Navy," Rauche called to the other officer.

"Good morning, Herr Leutnant, come to join the party?"

"What's happening?" he asked, then to the Askaris, "over there with the range tables, I want the Zeiss mounted up there, so. Where's the blasted telephone?"

"It's coming... very heavy, lieutenant sir... the magneto and cable drum..."

"Ok, ok, send them some help, Sergeant," he replied in annoyance.

"They'll be up into those hills soon," the naval lieutenant told the newcomer, "probably by noon. They don't seem to be setting any records. They're wasting their time searching Tanga."

"Captain von Wurtemburg's detachment's up just beyond that ridge," he replied, indicating, "hopefully the British will pursue him west, into those valleys."

So began the three-day battle of Tanga in German East Africa. Between the 4th to the 7th of November 1914 the British and Indian forces were decisively beaten. Thus Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck and the 'Ostafrika-Schutztruppen' became a thorn in the side of Britain's African empire.

Rungwa is a typical African town. Lying on the river of the same name, it also contains a trading post and a small missionary station. The river, one of many that drain the high plateau, delivers ivory destined for the European market before drifting lazily down into the rift valley. That is, before the outbreak of the Great War.

The road links the Viktoriasee, via the plateau and it's rich resources, to Njasasee in the south. From there it crosses the border into the British colony of Northern Rhodesia. Oberst-Leutnant Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, supreme commander of the German East African defence forces has chosen Rungwa as the staging post for his next big adventure. Shortly the main force will arrive. Some 7,000 Askaris, 1,600 mounted troopers and about 1000 German colonial infantry will converge on this sprawl of a town. Additionally, accompanying them will be some 9000 bearers and an indeterminate number of 'camp followers.'

I have been selected by Leutnant Stahl to go on ahead with the advance party. It will be my job as senior gun captain to find a suitable place to site our artillery. We have in our possession two antique field pieces, 77mm Krupp guns, and a 10.5cm naval gun from the cruiser Konigsburg. This massive gun is being hauled along by a team of oxen. A carriage was fabricated for it in Daressalam after it was salvaged from the scuttled vessel at Kikunjamunga on the Rufiji river. Some three hundred of the Konigsburg's crew now swell the ranks of the defence forces. I am one, Leutnant-zur-See Wolfgang Ritter of His Majesty's Navy.

Hauptman Reinhardt Hoffmann, the commander of the party, is also an artilleryman and, as we make our way along the dusty, sunburnt road, rides up alongside.

"I think maybe we should put the big gun on that promontory," he shouts, "that should cover the river. Then if we should be attacked from the south, you can traverse, no?"

"Yes," I call back, "we can turn it around inside 15 minutes. That's if we can have about 20 strong Askaris?"

"No problem," he replies, "I will tell Nshombe to detail them for artillery duty. They can also provide support for the rifle pits I will place on that little round hill."

Hoffmann points to the southwest away from the river. The low hill will obviously provide the key to the defence of the main route. He suggests putting one of the Krupps up there. Also in our possession are four of the precious Maxim guns. Two are off the cruiser so they lack the little carriage the army one's have. Instead a bipod mounting has been fabricating allowing some limited traverse. Hoffmann suggests one can go with the big gun. The machine gun will also cover the river should the enemy arrive by steamer.

The first thing on the agenda, however, is to introduce ourselves to the Europeans. As we ride into the town a little reception committee starts to gather around the square. The Africans begin to filter from the native village to line the road as we pass. They are in the main, quiet and curious.

This is Singidan territory; our Askaris are mostly Tangan and Arushan. There is an air of apprehension among the local natives to see such an influx of foreign tribes-people from the coast. Clearly the European officers will require the utmost tact in dealing with the Africans. The locals are tall and big boned, somewhat darker than their cousins from the coast. They wear the colourful tangas and tons of jewellery. Unlike the more remote villages, the women have their breasts covered, no doubt due to their adoption of the Christian faith.

The Europeans, perhaps thirty or more, are the usual odd assortment of officials, missionaries and traders. The corpulent police chief, Inspector Palmier, runs the town's affairs. Beside him is the local native chief, no doubt enhancing his status by being included in the official party.

On the other side of the policeman stand the Lutheran missionary and his family, Dr. Otto, Frau Otto and a bespectacled boy of about 12, Franz Otto. Beside them is the chief ivory trader, Guy Martin, a Frenchman. It can't be easy being an enemy national caught deep inside German territory. Guy, however, had every opportunity to leave at the outbreak of war but chose to stay. Indeed, having spent 25 years in the Tanganyika colony he had become a 'white native' as we say. Married to a Singida woman, with a healthy crop of half-breed children as a consequence. He saw little future for himself in mainland France.

Out here official policy has less and less relevance. By rights, Guy should have been sent to Daressalam for internment. Inspector Palmier, however, saw little point in separating him from his family and causing trouble with the man's African in-laws.

Palmier is an interesting character. Of French Huguenot descent, he has that mixture of authoritarianism and condescension that is part in parcel of German officials of the day. He is, however, well- respected by the Africans. Of little education, Inspector Palmier is typical of many who chose to answer the Kaiser's call to emigrate to the German colonies. Unfettered by the rigid class system at home, he elevated himself to a position of authority unthinkable in his native Mecklenburg. As I got to know him, I came to appreciate a compassion and understanding that belies his brusque exterior.

250 Kilometres to the southwest is the Rukwasee and beyond that, the British Territory of Northern Rhodesia.

"This is to become our central operational headquarters," Captain Hoffmann is telling the chief of police, "Naval Lieutenant Ritter," he continues, indicating me, "will be in charge of the artillery."

"Ah, very good, Herr Hauptman," Palmier replies, "the citizens of Rungwa will do all we can to co-operate with the Kaiser's forces. Just ask, I will find some Africans to help you with any manual work required."

"Thank you," Hoffmann tells him, "at this stage we have enough strong backs but I'll be sure to call on you if we require assistance."

The police chief looks very pleased with himself. I think he's enjoying the opportunity of demonstrating his local authority to the army. Also present at the meeting is the spiritual power in the town, Dr. Otto.

He combines the role of town Doctor with that of a missionary, having felt the call to spread Christianity in Africa while in practice in Berlin. He's thin and wiry, with skin like leather after years under the hot African sun. A wide-brimmed sun hat perches permanently on his head and he wears a long white coat buttoned to the collar. He explains that health among the natives is generally good. He is, though, concerned about the spread of syphilis and begs the Captain to have regard for the moral well-being of the soldiers.

"You can be sure," says Hoffmann, "I will insist on the minimum of fraternising with the local women."

As skilled a tactician as the Captain is, I doubt he can keep the troops from visiting the native village.

The soldiers of the advance party are kept busy during the afternoon laying out the camp. It's to be a little to the North on some flat ground near the native kraals, the only obvious place. Already Dr. Otto is voicing his concern about the location. Too near the natives, he insists.

"We need to encamp a large number of troops," Hoffmann tells him, "It's the only logical area. We must be able to defend the town should the British attack from the river. The stores must be inland or they'll be vulnerable, but our ammunition must be available without having to cart it 10 kilometres."

"Well ok," says the good Doctor, "but I insist on sentries posted between the village and the camp."

"Of course," Hoffmann assures the missionary.

I predict there'll be a lot of competition for those sentry positions. I imagine many Marks are likely to change hands in return for the sentries' lack of vigilance.

White women are something of a premium out in Africa. To leave the security and congeniality of Germany for the heat and the flies of Africa is not the first choice for any but the most hardy. Those that do make it out here are generally the families of missionaries and officials.

At Rungwa, there are five white women and about 25 men, a high ratio by colonial standards. Frau Otto is a forbidding woman of 42. Large, she wears a bodiced long dress that brushes the ground as she walks. Of commanding appearance, the officers learn early on to keep a wide berth.

Frau Carpentier and her husband George run the Mission school. She is about 26, her soft complexion now ruined by the climate. Her husband is also of French Huguenot stock, like the police chief.

Herr Helmut Fleischer, his wife Gertie and 16 year-old daughter Trudi run the general store and post office. Together with the Trader's hall this forms the commercial centre of the town, situated above the steamer pier.

My opportunity to view the daughter came during a feast of welcome laid on by the Europeans in our honour. Shy, she practically clung to her mother's skirts the whole time. She is, though, the prettiest little thing around, her skin not yet suffering the same ravages as her elders.

The last white woman of the town runs the steamer service office. Perhaps in her thirties, she is an East-Prussian minor aristocrat by the name of Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff. Enigmatic and unconventional, she wears men's clothes, shirts and short trousers. Dr. Otto warned us she was 'unnatural in tastes, ' but I was unable to learn more.

That, then, is the sum total of our genteel entertainment in this otherwise pleasant town. Elsewhere, one could seek the company of the natives, of course. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. No doubt many a dalliance could be had if you can bribe a sentry. For the enlisted men I'm sure it's an option many are considering as we speak. We officers, however, must set a better example; Captain Hoffmann insists it be so.

Captain Hoffmann is a career soldier from Munich in Bavaria. Like many Bavarians he's catholic, easy going and jovial. Underneath, he has little stomach for the strict brand of Lutheran Protestantism that pervades the German Missionary Service. At 28 he's still young, having risen quickly through the ranks in colonial service.

Lieutenant-Colonel Lettow-Vorbeck chose the young Captain personally for this mission, relying on his great tact and diplomacy. Reinhart is a charmer to both left and right. Perhaps, in trying to please everyone, he ends up satisfying no one, but thus far he's managed to navigate the tricky waters between citizen and army. He draws me aside later that afternoon.

"I know about you sailors," he tells me, eyes twinkling, "ports of call, safe harbours, eh? But do me a favour and keep it in your pants. I don't want the good Herr Doctor up my arse all the time, understand?"

"Yes, Herr Hauptman,"

"Reinhardt, please. Unless we're in front of the men, ok?" he insists.

"Yes... um... Reinhardt."

"Discretion Lieutenant!" calling back, he walks away tapping his nose.

I left Germany nearly three years ago. The Konigsburg, immediately prior to the outbreak of war, departed to begin commerce raiding in East-African waters. My post was as gun captain of the fore-turret, nicknamed 'Abel.' On the 20th of September 1914, we caught the enemy cruiser, HMS Pegasus, at anchor off Zanzibar and in a 20-minute bombardment, sent her to the bottom.

By July 1915 we had been forced to take refuge in the Rufiji river after the wireless station on Matia island was lost. Blockaded by the Royal Navy, Fregattenkapit"n Looff decided to scuttle the ship.

Beforehand, everything usable had been stripped from the cruiser. Guns, stores and victuals were all offloaded and taken inland. The crew, some 300 officers and men, then joined the defence forces. It took three weeks of backbreaking labour to haul the heavy guns up onto the plateau and away from enemy interference. That done, most were sent north against the Belgians, while the machine guns were distributed among all the fighting units. Since then I have taken on the role of artilleryman in the defence forces of German East Africa, engaging the British in the fighting along the Kenya border.

Meanwhile, I must prepare the position for the gun we're going to emplace to secure Rungwa from attack. Hoffmann wants the defence positions interlinked and self-supporting. The gun must cover the river, but also be capable of providing fire support for any assault on the low hill to our right. I therefore decide to site it behind a little knoll and construct a low wall of rammed earth around it. The emplacement must be wide enough to permit the gun to be traversed. A group of Askaris immediately start digging. They work fast, singing as they go, and the work is finished inside an hour.

By the middle of the afternoon, a dust cloud heralds the arrival of the guns. Accompanying them are about a thousand Askari infantry and a squadron of cavalry. While the newcomers refresh themselves in the river, sundry of their fellows haul the guns up to their positions. By dinnertime, everything has been set.

The officers are at dinner, which is laid out in front of the police post, when we become aware of a droning sound. It sounds rather like a swarm of locusts but Hoffmann immediately stands up.

"Aeroplane," he proclaims.

We scramble from the table with cries of 'alarm.' Already we hear a drumming of feet as men rush to their positions. I come up beside a Naval ensign peering into a pair of binoculars.

"Got it... there... a Curtis I think... maybe a Short, what do you think, Herr Leutnant?" he asks me.

I peer through the heavy evening atmosphere to where the seaman's pointing. Eventually I spy the black dot, focussing my glasses until the image resolves itself.

"Single engine," I announce, "Short type 827. They must have sent one from Zanzibar to Lake Nyasa."

Near me a rifle cracks.

"Cease fire!" I yell, "you're wasting ammunition... too far away."

Puffing, Hoffmann comes running up.

"Too much to expect that it's one of ours?" he asks wryly.

"British Royal Navy," I tell him, "a float plane, probably from the Njasasee."

"Are they going to bomb us?" Hoffmann enquires.

"Probably not. They must be at extreme range. I doubt it's carrying bombs."

"I'll get one of our machine guns training on it. Maybe we'll scare it off," he suggests.

"I wouldn't bother," I reply, "unless it comes lower. You'd be just shooting flies and birds."

Together we watch it slowly circle just out of range, before turning to the south and away.

Later Hoffmann calls a meeting of the officers. He organises mounted patrols and a party of Askaris to go downriver to glean any information on possible enemy movements. Already travellers are being questioned about activities south of the Northern Rhodesian border.

Despite the enemy's use of modern technology, our intelligence has always been better. This is because von Lettow is such a well- respected leader. He insists the native Africans are always treated with respect.

Conversely, the Belgians and South Africans are deeply distrusted by our people. We hear many stories of ill treatment of prisoners, summary executions, torture and such-like. I have to say we don't do such things to prisoners we capture.

Many of the Africans in Belgian employment are traditional enemies of the Tanganyikan people. In the past they were used by Arab slavers against them and they haven't forgotten that. Therefore our Askaris need little urging to defend themselves. Perhaps if the British and Belgians had a von Schnee and a von Lettow, things may have gone better for them in this part of the world. But while they treat the Africans with contempt and suspicion, we keep the loyalty of our colony intact.

That evening our bivouacs are allocated. I'm to be quartered with Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff, the Prussian with 'unnatural tastes'. As I carry my gear towards her house, I'm shivering with dread.

She greets me at the door with a stiff bow and a polite handshake. Like many Prussian 'Junkers' she is civil, reserved and imperious in manner. She commands her black servant to show me to my room. The girl scuttles off but is recalled by the shipping manager.

"Fetch the gentleman's luggage, Diana," she orders.

"It's alright," I insist.

"No, it's unthinkable," the woman insists, "the Kaiser's officers don't fetch and carry in my house."

She has her way.

By the pale lamp in Hildegard's drawing room, we take tea before retiring. The fraulein insists I try one of her fine cigars. No doubt it's been smuggled over the border.

"This is a big country," she tells me, "the British cannot stop the trading. By and large, the Africans come and go as they please, they can't stop them. Business continues, albeit by other routes."

In the yellow glow of the single oil lamp, Fraulein Masurien is much softer in appearance. Indeed, she is well educated and erudite, having been schooled at King's University, Konigsburg. Even in these enlightened times, a university educated woman is something of a novelty.

"So what did you read at King's?" I ask her.

"I have a doctorate in languages," she replies.

"Good heavens," I exclaim, "what on earth are you doing out here?"

"Ah, that, Herr Leutnant, is a long story," she says grinning. "You might say I followed my heart."

"A gentleman?" I ask her.

"In name only I'm afraid. But basically, you're correct."

She tells me she came to East Africa with her fiancée, a fellow graduate. It outraged her family who had since disowned and disinherited her. Then she was dumped when her beau found himself in love with the wife of the Belgian envoy. It caused quite a scandal at the time when they ran off to South Africa together.

"So now they shelter themselves among the Dutch farmers and the English bankers," she scoffs.

"So what," I venture to ask, "did Herr Otto mean about, 'unnatural tastes'?"

"Herr Otto is a fool and a hypocrite," she tells me vehemently, "you ask the natives about the moral Herr Otto. Ask them about the fatherless little half-breeds running around. You see my shotgun?" she asks pointing to a gun on the wall, "many times, I've come close, lieutenant, to shoving that up the good Doctor's arsehole. I'll make him unnatural alright."

I recoil at the lady's language. Not exactly that of a well brought up academic aristocrat.

The fraulein keeps a very tidy house, no doubt ably assisted by three black servants. Above the mantle hangs a photograph of Kaiser Wilhelm II, resplendent in the uniform of Commander in Chief of the Navy. Draped around it is a red-white-black ribbon. Below it is a framed photograph of the fleet flagship, the battleship 'Wilhelm der Grosse.'

"My brother sent it," she explains, "he's first officer."

"Your brother hasn't disowned you?" I enquire.

"No," she replies with a wry grin, "I doubt my father knows about it, though."

Hildegard turns out to have a deep respect for the Navy and it's officers. Like my home State of Niedersachsen, East Prussia is navy country centred on the ports of Danzig and Elbing. These Baltic people are very proud of their seafaring traditions. Little did I know, but the fraulein had specifically requested me for her hospitality.

"I heard about your heroic victory over the Pegasus," she enthuses, "tell me about it."

"Nothing much to tell, Fraulein Masurien. It was lying offshore off Zanzibar with her boiler fires drawn. Like shooting tethered pigeons. It was only a small cruiser, no match for Konigsburg."

"You are too modest!" she complains, "wasn't that the same Britisher that bombarded Tanga? Pirates! They deserved retribution, Herr Leutnant."

Her eyes light up, revealing a somewhat passionate nature. I feel strangely drawn towards her, even though she must be a good ten years my senior.

"Would that I was born a man, I'd gladly serve in the Navy. A true and noble life, the sea. Where did you do your training?"

"Wilhelmshaven and the gunnery school at Berlin."

"Ah, my brother Ernst, he's sitting in the Jade river with the fleet, y'know. They don't do anything, I have no idea what von Ingenohl is up to. He should get out there and fight the British as you are doing."

"I understand von Pohl is in charge now," I tell her, "the high- seas fleet is shorthanded these days. Many of the crews have gone to serve in U boats."

"Well," she grumbles, "at least they're not just warming their bunks."

I accept her offer of a refill of Brandy. I'm starting to feel a little light-headed.

"I wouldn't want to serve in those tin cans. 40 men jammed into a locomotive boiler then sealed up and dunked in water! Can you imagine the smell?" I laugh.

"Oh my goodness!" she exclaims, laughing, "that wouldn't be pleasant."

I explain to the lady that, although the fleet doesn't appear to be doing much, it actually ties up a lot of enemy forces.

"Imagine what might happen if the Royal Navy could get into the Baltic? Perhaps link up with the Russians? An invasion on the North German coast with Russian troops protected by British warships?"

"Oh my goodness," she looks aghast, "Russians descending on Berlin? That must not happen!"

"Never!" I tell her boldly, "not in my lifetime!"

"Good on you... another Brandy?"

"Forgive me but I must demure. We're having a practice shoot tomorrow morning. I want a clear head."

"Oh yes you must!" she giggles, "that's a big gun!"

As she walks me to my room, she looks a little ruddy in the cheeks. She pats me on the shoulder like a old comrade, telling me how pleased she is to welcome the Navy into her house.

"Your weapon, Herr Leutnant, how big is it?" she asks.

Sensing a double entendre, I look sidelong at her, but her face is the picture of innocence.

"10.5cm, Fraulein Masurien," I answer.

"That doesn't sound very big?" she replies.

"Big enough," I tell her, "high velocity and quick-firing. A good range too."

"Well," she says, "I'm sure it will do quite nicely. Good night."

She gives my hand a quick shake, smiling enigmatically.

I lie in my bunk thinking for a while, curious about the fraulein. To be honest, she wouldn't have been my first choice among the women of the town. Not that she's ugly. In fact she has an inbred elegance about her and she's quite charming. But she doesn't go out of her way to make herself appealing in the feminine way. Her blond hair is cut practically short. It would be easy to mistake her for a man were it not for, well, rather a full figure. Indeed, hips you could rest a tray on and... Her loose men's shirts cannot conceal a large bosom.

It has been some months since I last had the pleasure of a woman's company. A sailor has to find contentment in long periods of abstinence and, well quench one's manly urges when in port. It perhaps makes such liaisons more significant, even when bought and paid for. A lady of business once told me in Kiel, where I was on leave,

"I like you sailors. You pay well, spend the night, then leave for 6 months. And you're always glad to see me!"

I roll on my side and tuck my large Colt revolver in beside me. I relieved it off a Portuguese officer, whose party we captured on the Mozambique border. I found it a most useful and reliable weapon and it always sleeps beside me. For a while, my comrades nicknamed me, 'Billy the Kid.'

Dozing, I become aware of a soft tapping. I'm instantly on alert and my hand finds the butt of my Colt.

"Lieutenant?" whispers a voice.

"Whose there!" I demand, freeing the revolver from the bed covers.

Quietly the door opens a fraction and a face appears indistinctly through the mosquito netting.

"Lieutenant, it's Hildegard. I wondered whether you were still awake?"

"Fraulein? I'm sorry... um... I was going to shoot you," I tell her.

"I'm glad you didn't!" she chuckles.

"What's the matter?" I ask her.

"I was wondering... perhaps you would care for some more... ah... company," she says. "It must be a while, perhaps, since you enjoyed feminine hospitality?"

"Yes," I admit in surprise.

"Perhaps, then, a little nightcap... in my room? I've sent the servants away. We will not be... ah... interrupted."

The imputation is obvious, even to a relatively unsophisticated junior officer of the Kaiser's Navy. Needless to say, the suggestion is not unwelcome. Wordlessly I follow her down the hall to her bedroom. She carries an oil lamp to light the way and in the glow, I watch the flowing of her long nightdress. Modestly I'd put on my trousers over my underpants. One must never assume matters with a lady.

I follow her into the room. She sets the lamp on the table beside the bed. Two glasses have already been filled with Brandy and gleam in the lamplight. Passing a glass to me, she offers a toast to our success.

"The Kaiser!" she snaps, and puts the glass to her lips.

"The Kaiser!" I repeat.

Setting down her glass, she reaches out her hand and drags her fingertips down my bare chest. I look down at her bust. It swells as she breathes heavily with excitement.

"You're a very handsome officer, Lieutenant," she whispers, "you're making me quite nervous."

Framing her face with my hands, I move slowly towards her. Bending down, her mouth opens as I press my lips to hers. Hildegard kisses back fiercely, forcing her tongue into my mouth. Her hand clutches my head, holding me still harder against her. After some minutes, she pulls away.

"Oh dear," she gasps, "I fear you're taking advantage of a lady."

Fired with lust, I advance towards her as she backs away to the bed. Sitting down, I put my hands on her shoulders and push gently till she's lying on her back. I lie on top of her and resume kissing.

Her body is soft and warm, I squirm my body, feeling the cushions of her breasts squash against my chest. She shivers, but offers no protest as I begin to undo the pearl buttons of her nightdress. After five buttons her cleavage becomes revealed in all its voluptuousness. Mounds of lovely, soft, womanly flesh. I smooth them with my fingertips, marvelling at the silky texture. I touch them with my lips. A strong woman, she sighs and heaves me to the side.

"Please... let me up," she pants.

I'm momentarily puzzled until I see her finishing undoing the buttons. Standing, she peels off her dress in one movement. When she's completely naked and I marvel at the sight revealed.

Beneath her short blond hair is a face, although darkened by the sun, nevertheless pleasant, with piercing blue eyes. Those eyes are now glowing with excitement. From her neck, a V of dark, freckled skin drops to her large pale breasts that hang to her navel. They are shapely and full, however, and are crowned with dark aureoles and stiff crimson nipples. Her tummy is slightly rounded and falls into a thatch of brown pubic hair. This is framed by her wide hips and fleshy thighs. My inspection is halted as she begins to stalk up the length of my body. Pressing her lips to my navel, she says,

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable, Lieutenant, without that unnecessary garment?"

She indicates by tracing her hand down the front of my trousers. Her breasts flop onto my thighs nestling my growing discomfort between them. She assists me in disposing of my trousers before attacking the underpants. My freed cock then resumes its perch between her breasts, as she slowly massages it.

"I do love the feel of a man, the sweat, the smell. You don't have any scars, Lieutenant?"

"I've never been wounded," I reply, "yet, thank God."

"Oh, you're too perfect, too perfect," she says, and starts to lick at my chest. Looking up, she tells me, "you'd suit a scar, maybe one here... or here," indicating sections of my chest, "it's very manly for a fighting officer."

I have to disagree with her, however. I'd rather keep my skin relatively unblemished and wound-free. Laughing, I ask her how many scarred officers she'd inspected.

"Lieutenant, you're being impertinent," she replies sternly.

She hauls herself alongside and lies on her side and strokes my bristly chin. I push my knee between her legs, which part to accept the intrusion. My thigh brushes the damp bush in the apex of her desire. She sucks in her breath as at last I seize one of her soft mammaries. I lower my mouth and feed her nipple between my lips. As I suckle her, a hand grasps my manhood and roughly pulls on it.

With my own hand, I reach down and explore her tummy, drifting lower towards her sex. Growling, she seizes me by the shoulders and wrestles me onto my back. She throws a leg over and sits astride me, grinding herself on my chest. Slightly bent over, her breasts dangle just above my face. Holding her around the bottom, I revel in the rippling of her flesh as she moves. The fraulein's hand reaches behind and once more works on my member.

She inches back so my cock slips between her cheeks. There, she rubs it slowly mingling our juices together. With a groan she lifts herself up and, in one movement, sits down forcing my cock up to the very hilt. Hildegard pauses, wriggling on it.

"Very nice... Lieutenant," she whispers, "very nice."

She begins to rise and fall, taking my hands and placing them on her breasts.

"Squeeze them... uh... Lieutenant," she tells me breathlessly, "harder... please... uh... yes."

She slams down more fiercely, the springs of the bed groaning in response. Her breathing's ragged, her face grimacing, those blue eyes are now fixed on mine.

I wish I could say I lasted the distance. However long months of abstinence have left my pistol on a hair-trigger. Hildegard, though, seems not to notice for she continues to work herself into a frenzy of pleasure. Growling, hollering, swearing and urging me to, 'keep going' pushes me to feats of athleticism I'd previously thought impossible. Having discharged my first salvo, the main gun remains fully trained and charged. Pulling herself from on top of me, she lays down on her front, heaving and muttering. I reach over and stroke the great cheeks of her bottom, quivering and slippery from the activity. She starts and moans when my finger finds her gooey entrance. I remain at action stations, however, and roll on to her, lifting her bottom up, and ram another round into her breech.

Her head is buried in the pillows as I finish with rapid thrusts. Her muffled howling is continuous gradually subsiding as exhaustion takes over. Turning her head to the side, her face is dripping with perspiration.

"Well... Lieutenant," she sighs, smiling, "will you... be billeted here... long?"

Kissing her I reply,

"It depends... on what danger... you're in."

"Oh," she chuckles, "great danger, I think... very great danger!"

Hildegard packs me off back to my room some time in the wee hours of the morning. She doesn't want the servants to discover us. I need to be up bright and early at 6 o'clock for a practice shoot of the big gun.

Given my lack of a night's sleep, I feel invigorated and cheerful in the morning. I have a light breakfast and stroll jauntily out to the gun emplacement. Hildegard had the cook prepare a packed lunch of black bread and cheese. As I arrive, the crew are just assembling, a mixed group of Africans and Germans. Lacking the truck used to transport the shell to the gun breech, everything has to be worked by hand. Two men carry the shell and fit it into the breech, a rammer pushes it home, another closes and locks. A ranger-taker, gun aimer, one man each on the traverse and height wheels, gun Captain, and four shell handlers complete the team. For acute changes of direction we can call on the Askaris to lift the trail of the gun and move it around.

The crew stand stiffly at their positions waiting for the order for the practice to commence. Everyone's thinking about their part in this little ballet, hoping they don't foul up. The practice shells are marked with a green band. They're filled with compacted sawdust to approximate the weight of a live one. Live shells have a red band, naturally it's important not to confuse the two. Satisfied as to the crew's readiness, I blow my whistle.

Counting the seconds on my pocket watch, I time the crew as it goes about the well-practiced routine. As each man completes their tasks they yell out, 'loader clear', 'rammer clear', breech locked', 'target',

"Gun ready!" shouts the aimer.

They all look to me for the order to fire. The gun is trained across the river at a convenient tree. I put my glasses to my eyes and train them on the target.

"FIRE!" I yell and the aimer tugs at the firing lanyard with relish.

'CRASH!' The gun leaps back against the stops of the recoil mechanism. The rumbling echo continues on from some seconds afterwards. Through my binoculars, I observe the puff of red dust across the river. It's a couple of degrees left and about 10 metres over, an excellent ranging shot. The men are stunned when I congratulate them. They regard me as being rather over-critical so the praise was most unexpected.

Remarkably the second shot is right on target and the men cheer as a cloud of bark and branches leap into the air. Satisfied, I allow one more firing, which the boys do in a relaxed, but excited fashion. After hauling the thing so far over rough or non-existent roads, it's an absolute pleasure to let it off. I order the crew to stand down and relieve them of fatigues for the day in appreciation of their work. They stroll off happily, arm in arm, to one of the few watering holes in Rungwa.

Later I report to Captain Hoffmann. He's pleased with the state of readiness and informs me I may be staying here for a while.

"The enemy is besieging Bismarckburg," he informs me, "I understand the General is to raid their supply lines north of Abercorn in Rhodesia. They'll travel by river steamer to the Rukwasee, then overland. We're all going accept the artillery, I'm afraid. You'll have to remain here with the crews and a company of infantry. I intend to promote you to acting Captain and to take overall command."

"Me - in command?" I ask him in surprise, "but I'm a Naval officer!"

"So?" You've done your basic infantry training, haven't you?"

"Of course, all seaman have to do the course."

"So, if anything comes up-river under a British flag, shoot them. Just don't lose the guns, the boys'll be disappointed."

Hoffmann rushes away to attend to the preparations for the raid. I have plenty to do in organising some kind of defence in consultation with the Company Commander. From one gun, I'm now to command about 1000 troops and have the responsibility for a town-full of civilians. Together with some army officers for advice, I spend the afternoon surveying our positions and drawing up some kind of plan.

With my heart in my mouth I watch my advisors speed away to their units. Already, the red dust clouds of the approaching army of von Lettow can be seen to the North. Black oily smoke from the river steamers appears from upriver, answering the call from the Commander in Chief. Everything suddenly clicks into gear like a well-oiled machine.

I watch the embarkation of our soldiers with apprehension. It goes on well into the evening. It's nightfall before the little fleet departs; the flickering boiler fires are all that distinguish the raiding party from the black of the African night. The whole town falls strangely quiet as if it's holding its breath. Alone, I wander back to Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff's colonial cottage and garden around midnight. I feel as if the fate of the great German Empire rests on my shoulders.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Historical / Slow /