Chapter 1: Hildegard

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."