Chapter 2: Trudi

Behind the General Store and Post Office of Herr Helmut Fleischer is a collection of buildings that house the black African servants and the Storekeeper's supplies. At this time of the day there's little activity for it's nearly noon. In the heat of the midday sun, not much is done and most of the workers are down at the river. That is except for a boy of about 18 by the name of Angoni. Restless, he peers out of a corner of the matting that serves as the door to the round hut.

From the main house, beyond the beaten gravel pathway, Trudi Fleischer slips out of the cookhouse door and takes a quick look around before creeping down towards the native quarters.

Her blond hair is tied in bangs; on her head she wears a green bonnet, the wide brim of which protects her delicate skin from the African sun. Her dress is modestly long and buttons right up to her throat. She hitches up the hem as she makes the final sprint to the hut. Angoni pulls the matting door aside and Trudi slips inside. The boy looks agitated and pokes his head out again for another peek.

"Are you sure no-one saw you miss?" he asks Trudi.

"Relax," she reassures him, "Mutti's having her siesta, Putti's drinking down at the hotel with the soldiers. All the servants are down at the river."

"I don't want a whipping, miss," the boy tells her nervously.

"No-one's going to harm you, Angoni, settle down!"

"Yes miss," the boy replies, looking at the floor.

Trudi goes to the oil lamp set on the table and puts a taper to it. The dark windowless hut adopts a pale glow.

"Now," the girl says turning towards the boy, "show me!"

Reluctantly Angoni starts to undo the ties of his breeches. Pushing them down, he steps out of the legs and stands naked from the waist down. Trudi walks up to the boy and gently takes his flaccid penis in her hand. Angoni looks down as Trudi manipulates him, he breathes heavily in fear and expectation.

"Tell me Angoni, have all your friends got such big ones?"

"Some," replies Angoni, still fearful, "some bigger miss."

She pulls on him, feeling it begin to stiffen in her hand.

"Now it's your turn," she tells him stepping back.

Angoni takes his growing cock in his hand and begins to stroke it up and down.

"Good boy... good boy," Trudi tells him like one might talk to a pet animal.

After a little while, with his cock standing straight up and slimy, Angoni asks Trudi,

"Can I see... miss?"

I guess," she replies, considering, "I suppose you've been a good boy."

Trudi undoes a few buttons of her dress and slowly, seductively pulls aside the fabric to expose one of her little pale breasts.

"Here," she says, "but you mustn't touch, hear?"

"No miss," the boy answers and strokes himself faster.

Later, as Trudi slips back through the cookhouse door, she thinks he HAD splashed a lot of his stuff. She knew Angoni adored her, but it was unthinkable for her to have an 'understanding' with a black, completely unthinkable. Indeed there was only one person to whom she could cheerfully give her heart, the Kommandant of the town's defence forces, Hauptmann Wolfgang Ritter.

Meanwhile, as Kommandant, I make it a habit of inspecting the sentry positions each day. The duty Gefreiter and I ride over the area, assuring ourselves everyone is on alert. It's been three days since von Lettow left with the main force to raid into Rhodesia, three days of nerve-racking routine. We approach another post.

"Achtung, Offizier!" yells the Gefreiter.

An Askari leaps from his position under a large tree and snaps to attention.

"Report, Soldier!"

"Nothing Herr Gefreiter, no enemy sir!" the soldier responds.

"Good... ah... Herman isn't it?" I ask him kindly.

"Herman Nyrere Herr Hauptmann!"

"There's a lot of you Nyrere's around, isn't there?" I ask him.

"Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. I have 12 brothers and 9 cousins. We're very loyal to the Kaiser sir."

I smile at the young sentry's reply. The Gefreiter confides,

"Fertile bunch, Herr Hauptmann. They're good soldiers too, sir."

Riding on, I think a little about the Askaris. Their fierce loyalty places a heavy responsibility on us. Having freed them from the deprivations of Arab slavers and warlike neighbours through German arms, they look to us to provide the leadership to see them through this crisis. But how long can we continue to prevail over our enemies? Every month our forces erode, while that of our foes grows stronger. Germany is bleeding to death in France. And what will happen in America ever decides to join with the British? It would be the 'coup de grace, ' I think.

What happens to the Tanganyikans then? Overrun by vengeful enemies and delivered into the hands of the British, Dutch and Belgians? Their lands parcelled up for the convenience of the victorious allies? Their only hope is a negotiated peace and with every month, that prospect grows dimmer.

In the afternoon, I must hold court over minor infractions of military discipline, just like the Captain of a ship. Most of the reports deal with visiting the native village without authorisation. Indeed, with Doctor Otto constantly prowling through the huts, the list of malefactors is getting tediously long.

"Three days loss of pay and privileges, next!"

It's a production line and the missionary is becoming irritating. The good Doctor would have me lash the transgressors but I remind him there are standards of military justice and I must conform to the code. I feel a hypocrite in delivering these sentences. While Hildegard von Masurien continues to treat me like a husband, it's difficult looking these men in the eye. I hope, though, that they understand it's my duty.

Fraulein Masurien is definitely 'not' looking for a husband, however. She tells me she's doing fine on her own. When I reminded her of the inevitable consequences of our night time activities she assured me that, 'everything has been taken care of.'

"You can be sure there'll be no little mariners suckling me nine months hence," was all she said.

At the end of the 'Captain's list' I receive an invitation from the shopkeeper, Herr Fleischer. He asks me if I'd care to have dinner with his family this Friday. I discuss the invitation with Hildegard later that evening.

"Trudi!" she says.

"What?"

"The Fleischers are looking to marry her off," she tells me.

"But she's, what 15?" I remark in surprise.

"16, and, my dear, you're the most eligible bachelor in Rungwa. I doubt she has many other prospects out here."

"But she's so young! She needs to be in a finishing school or..."

The Fraulein admits a throaty laugh.

"Where? In Daressalam? I hear it's in the hands of the British. You think she should be sent back to Germany? How? By blockade-runner dodging mines in the North Sea? Or maybe the Navy might send a U-Boat for her if you ask them nicely? Then what does she arrive home to? Food shortages? This time, Leutnant, I'm in the Fleischer's camp I'm afraid. Better she finds a handsome Naval Officer now while she still can."

"Are you trying to marry me off to her?" I ask in surprise.

"Why not!" she laughs, "this way, I can borrow your company from time to time."

"That's outrageous," I tell her, smiling, "you'd keep company with a married man?"

"I assure you, Lieutenant, it would not be uncommon in Rungwa."

The veneer of respectability pasted over a hotbed of immorality; and then there's Rungwa, as I'm beginning to discover. There seem to be any amount of peccadilloes going on among the whites to the dismay of their black servants. They are, of course, sworn to protect the privacy of their masters, but naturally they gossip.

"Dr Otto accuses me of having unnatural tastes," Hildegard tells me, "but he needn't look any further than his own household."

"Really!"

"I'll tell you this in absolute confidence, Leutnant. Frau Otto was seen by one of her servants... with her maid's head between her legs."

"The Missionary's wife?" I exclaim, disbelieving.

"Yes... skirts hiked up, so."

Hildegard demonstrates, giving me a fleeting glimpse of her bloomers.

"How was that?" I grin at her.

"Like this," she says slowly hiking her skirts back up, "and the maid's head was here," she adds, pointing.

I get on my knees before her. Taking a leg in each hand, I lower my mouth onto her silk covered mound and plant a kiss.

"Ooh Leutnant," she coos, seductively, "except I don't think she was wearing anything underneath."

Her underwear lying discarded on the floor, she gasps,

"Yes... that's much more... like it... uh."

Placing her feet on my shoulders, she holds me around the head as I push my tongue through her brown-fluffy folds.

That evening a boy comes to the door with a Telegraph message.

'Hauptmann, Detachment 'R'.'

'A loss for the British, one Short type 827 seaplane.'

'You may expect no more reconnaissance of your positions.'

'LV'.

It was some time later before the full facts come out. Apparently the Britisher alighted near river steamer No.7, having mistaken the Rukwasee for Lake Nyasa. It just flew right over the top, coming from nowhere to the utter dismay of the soldiers. Taxiing up to the beach, the two crewmen waded ashore to be apprehended by the Askaris. They had, they said, landed to gain directions to their base and 'a tin of petrol.' The Officer, a South African who 'knew the land, ' was most put out.

"How dare you let a Kaffir point a rifle at a white man!" he'd berated von Lettow.

Unmoved by the South African's bluster, the General had given him over to the care of Sergeant Savimba to the general amusement of the raiding party. The Dutch 'vortrekkers' had driven the Sergeant's Ngoni people from their homes in South Africa.

Meanwhile, the fraulein is taking less and less care with her reputation. It has become common knowledge here that the Kommandant is the shipping manager's lover. It is the nature of social hierarchies, however, that nothing is mentioned. Indeed, it's almost as if it's expected that I involve myself with one of the white ladies of the town. I wouldn't be a man, though, if I didn't cast an eye towards young Trudi Fleischer.

It's obvious to the men here that she's in the full bloom of youth. Week by week, she appears just a little more rounded in the hips, just a fraction more developed in the bust. Daily she seems more confident out in public, adopting a swing to the hips whenever she passes by groups of our soldiers. I fear she's growing into a little tease, quite a change since I first laid eyes on her.

In the context of her developing sexuality, it's understandable, therefore, that her parents would want to see her safely married off to a suitable young man. With such a poor ratio of women to men, the potential for her to fall foul of some smooth-talking attentions is great.

"We are doomed!" cries Leutnant Spangenburg, the Infantry Commander.

He has just brought the news that the railway from Daressalam to Tabora is in enemy hands. This effectively divides the country in half, north and south. Puffing excitedly on a cigar offered by Fraulein Masurien, he stalks up and down the drawing room as if looking for enemies.

"Calm down," I tell him, "we've had setbacks before. Remember, territory is unimportant; we must keep in the field. The enemy hasn't won until the defence forces are defeated. The British can't hold everything, there're not enough of them. They move south, we strike north. Attack where he's weakest, you've heard the General's briefings."

"You're living in a fantasy, Wolfgang," he replies, "how many of us have been carried off by Yellow Fever, Cholera... half of your own crew are down with Malaria! Soon there'll be no one left to hold a gun! The British have 100,000 men, 100,000 Wolfgang! What will happen if the Americans get involved? There'll be simply nowhere to go!"

"Until then our duty is clear, Leutnant," I tell him stiffly, "we obey our orders and do our best."

"I wonder," he says, sadly, "if anyone in Berlin really notices or cares what we do here. Our dead are but a drop in the bucket compared to those in France. Who will remember Kettering, Fischer, Josef Bauer and all the rest Herr Hauptmann? They were all friends of mine and now what? Lying, mouldering somewhere out there for what purpose? One day there'll be no one left alive to remember the dead. The British and Dutch will be pitching their tents over our muddy graves."

"Another brandy Leutnant Spangenburg?" interjects Hildegard.

The infantryman accepts the drink wordlessly and takes a deep draft. Shivering from the fiery liquid, he nods to the lady before mumbling his goodbyes. Together we watch him shamble out the door into the night.

"Will he be all right?" asks Hildegard.

"He'll sleep it off," I shrug, "he's just had a bit too much to drink."

When we enter Hildegard's bedroom, arm in arm, Diana, her maid, has already turned back the covers. She gives a little curtsy before backing out the door, grinning.

"I swear that Diana is getting more and more impertinent each day. I'll need to have a word with her about proper manners," the Fraulein tells me.

"What's she done now?"

"You saw that look on her face!"

Later, as we start to make love, Hildegard whispers to me, full of concern.

"Wolfie, you won't leave us, will you? To the British, I mean, you won't go off and get yourself killed somewhere? If you leave, I'm coming too, I have my shotgun and I can shoot as straight as any man."

"I... I don't know, honestly, what's going to happen. If the British enter Rungwa, I'm sure they'll treat you with consideration... Perhaps you might find a Tommie Officer who..."

"Don't!" she spits, "don't patronise me! I'll be no-one's whore and the English can go hang! Now get that thing of yours ready and do your duty!"

"Jawohl Fraulein Masurien!" I tell her smiling.

In normal peacetime, Trudi Fleischer would probably have been sent back home to complete her education. No doubt she would've stayed with some family who would supervise her entry into society. Thus introduced, she could then pick her mate from the available suitors in a controlled setting.

But these days, it's impossible to get back to Germany. Impossible, even to travel far in East Africa. So trapped, she must find a protector soon or she'll have little chance of finding a life independent of her parents. No one knows what will happen should the English take over. This I believe, as I make my way to the Fleischer's for dinner.

Herr Fleischer is courteous but nervous as he greets me in the atrium of their large sprawling home. Conspicuously wealthy, this little man with the waxed moustache continuously fidgets in a most unsettling fashion. Terrified, possibly, that his riches will shortly all be swept away by the British. Frau Fleischer, by contrast, is relaxed and gracious and extends me her ring-adorned hand in welcome.

"It has been too long a wait," she says, "we should have invited you to dinner much sooner."

In her early forties, she's impressive in stature, tall and shapely with a glittering of pearls and broaches draped about her. Herr Fleischer, on the other hand, seems weedy and fussy by comparison. More like a junior bank clerk than a rich businessman. The source of the Fleischer's wealth has been the black market. From small shopkeepers and traders the Fleischers have made an absolute fortune since the beginning of the war and the British blockade.

"Helmut, perhaps the Herr Hauptmann might care for a Cognac before dinner?" she tells her husband.

"Of course!" he replies.

The man fetches a decanter from a very well-stocked liquor cabinet.

"Perhaps later you might care for a Havana? My husband brought them from Mombassa."

Herr Fleischer looks startled and stares at his wife.

"Before the war, of course," she adds, chuckling, to the definite relief of her husband.

At dinner, I'm placed next to Trudi. She's tense and agitated during the meal. Her hands shake and she rarely looks up from the table. Her mother tries to explain to me the qualities of the young girl as tactfully as she can. Trudi, however, seldom responds with anything more than a polite smile.

A little exasperated by her daughter's shyness, her mother suggests Trudi shows me the garden in the reddish sunset of the evening. The girl strolls alongside me, smoothing her dress, and fiddling with her hair ribbons.

"You seem nervous, Fraulein Fleischer?" I open the conversation.

"Do I?" she shrugs.

"Is anything wrong?"

After a long pause, she replies thoughtfully.

"My mother wants you to court me."

"I know," I respond to her honesty, "and what does Fraulein Fleischer want?"

She's again lost in thought.

"Why do I need a Naval Officer who's probably going to die soon anyway..."

She seems startled by her own outspoken-ness.

"I'm sorry, Herr Hauptmann... I... I say things sometime... I didn't mean..." she apologises quickly.

I turn her slightly so I can see into her eyes. I sense fear, mingled with excitement, something intangible perhaps.

"It's quite alright," I assure her, "you're quite correct, I may die soon, who knows? But we must pretend that we are going to live long lives or give over to despair."

"And do you give over... to despair, I mean?"

"I greet each sunrise with happiness," I tell her, "content that this day I'm alive in this beautiful country."

"Oh you liar!" she chuckles, "I bet you're scared out of your wits!"

"Fraulein, I started off with few wits to be scared out of."

Her laughter lights up this young girl. Replacing her nervous expression is an impish grin that sizzles with the excitement of the game. It would do no harm, I think, to spend a little time in this girl's company.

From the double French windows of their large house, Frau Fleischer watches with satisfaction the banter among the roses. 'An Officer, ' she thinks to herself, 'that can more than take care of himself.'

It is some days before I have a chance to spend some more time with Trudi. With the news of the capture of the railway we must presume that the enemy will march on us in a two- pronged movement. Firstly, they'll probably sortie south from Tabora. Secondly, taking advantage of Lake Tanganyika, they may try and advance to the north of Bismarckburg and cut off von Lettow's withdrawal. Knowing, as I do, the Herr General's mind he will do precisely what the enemy thinks is least likely. That means, he'll advance into British territory.