Chapter 5: The Battle Begins

The Etrich Taube bumps down after it's second reconnaissance flight. Gerda Carpentier bounds down from the cockpit, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Striding purposefully over to the shed she asks where Leutnant Spangenburg is.

"Gone with his men," I tell her.

She shivers with concern for her absent lover, perhaps even now fighting for his life somewhere out there. Collecting herself, she gives her breathless report to me.

"Still in column... near that village by the twin bridges."

"I know it," I tell her, "go on."

"They shot at me. More of them this time..."

"Sir?" interrupts the Feldwebel. "There's a bullet hole in the wing. We have some spare fabric, we can repair it and... "

"Do it quickly," I tell him. "Then move over to the other side of the river. I've had some Askaris prepare a strip for you. Put your gear in the lorry and take it down to the barge. You're too exposed here."

"Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann." He snaps a salute.

"Frau Carpentier, your flying is temporarily halted. It's becoming too dangerous," I tell Gerda.

"It is nothing," she replies. "They are poor shots..."

"They're not," I reply firmly. "True, it's difficult shooting at an aeroplane, but these are professional soldiers. One mustn't underestimate them." I soften my voice. " Besides, they should be in contact with our patrols soon. You will not be needed."

Frau Carpentier flinches at the thought. I upbraid myself for my callous reference.

"The Leutnant knows what he's doing," I add kindly. "He will not let himself get caught."

Fetching her carbine, the brave woman announces that she is prepared to fight alongside the soldiers. Never one to argue with a woman, I suggest she goes with the aeroplane across the river. I tell her that, as Rungwa's only pilot, she is too important to risk in the rifle pits. Reluctantly, she sees the good sense in my argument.

It is about midday when the enemy makes first contact with our patrols. Staffel 'C' of Spangenburg's light cavalry have the honour of firing the first shots, apart, of course, from Gerda Carpentier's optimistic popping from the cockpit of the Etrich.

Six troopers lie in wait some half a kilometre from the road; six men with rifles against some 500 of the enemy. Their horses wait patiently in a nearby sunken streambed. This country is criss-crossed with them. Silently they wait until the column has passed halfway by, then, kneeling, they fire a volley into the mass of the trotting enemy troopers.

The enemy mass dissolves into nearby fields amid much shouting from their commanders. As Spangenburg's 6 troopers fire another volley, the Lancers take up positions across the road and begin to return a sporadic fire. As one, the Staffel drops back down into cover and runs at a crouch back to the horses. They mount up quickly and ride at the gallop back down the creek bed while bullets part the air above them.

The British Colonel has seen this style of fighting before. Back during the Boer rebellion in South Africa, he had watched the steady erosion of his troops by Boer Kommandos sharp-shooting from nearby hills. He detested it and much preferred warfare where the enemy stood their ground and fought, not this skulking around in the underbrush. It was not an honourable way to fight. Calling his Captain forward, he consults him on how best to deal with the situation.

"I suggest we put patrols out, sir, and force these fellows as far away from the main body as possible," he says. "The problem is these blasted water races. Some of them are deep enough to conceal a whole regiment."

"Quite, Captain Harris, but I don't wish our men to be picked off in the underbrush. I think we will keep an open order, two abreast, and retain formation. Keep the men vigilant, Captain."

"Yes sir," Harris replies.

He fears, however, that the Colonel is wrong. They will be ambushed, of that he has no doubt.

At the head of 100 troopers, the bulk of the light cavalry or 'Uhlans, ' as Spangenburg styles them, the cavalry leader is being informed quickly as to the disposition of the enemy. Riders come in regularly, giving the latest news.

The balance of Spangenburg's cavalry is split into small parties, detailed to shadow the enemy and to attack targets of opportunity. Each party has a designated 'runner' whose task it is to keep the Leutnant informed of developments.

The ground has been well surveyed during the weeks leading up to this battle. The Leutnant's men have carefully mapped out all the creeks, races, hollows, hills and other possible ambush sites. Spangenburg, however, is cantering to just one place. The perfect site, he thinks, to spring a trap.

Back at Rungwa, the evacuation of the town is going well. Most of the town's civilians have been transported across the river for their own safety. A number of the whites have taken up arms, and the more capable of them have been assigned positions in the line.

The small convoy for the Pangali and our waiting steamer, the SS Goethe, has been assembled and placed in the charge of Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff. The army detachment will follow as soon as conditions permit. Going with them is my bride to be, Trudi Fleischer and her mother Gertrude.

I haven't time to dwell on this fact, for there is plenty to do before the enemy arrive. Our guns are re-sited to cover the British line of approach. Our landing strip has been moved across the river and petrol and maintenance supplies barged over. Gerda Carpentier waits impatiently for orders to take to the air once again.

I miss the experience of Leutnant Spangenburg as I tour our defences. Never before have I had to depend on my own resources as Kommandant of a land battle. I simply can't rely on my ability to cover all contingencies. Nervously I study the ground, trying to second-guess a professional army. Me, a lowly Leutnant-zur-See in the Kaiser's Navy, elevated to command a land battle. I desperately want Spangenburg to return soon.

Across the river, Gerda Carpentier desperately awaits the return of the Leutnant. However, she misses him for an altogether different reason. She has fallen completely in love with him. A frantic and passionate love for a man she has only just met. Her life has been turned completely over. She has left her husband, fallen in love with another man and become an aviator, all in the space of a few days.

She occupies herself by walking with the ground crew along the new runway, looking for rocks and other obstructions that could break the fragile undercarriage of the aeroplane. Once a rock is discovered, it gets passed from hand to hand to the edge of the strip. A telephone line is being rigged across the river straight to my headquarters in the police station. Once battle has been joined, I have told her, I may need to assess the dispositions of the forces against me - an overall view of the battle that only an aeroplane can give me.

Brigadier General Maitland-Evans has been moved, complaining, from his prison at the Rungwa hotel. His very fine Vauxhall Prince Henry has been left on the other side, there being no particular use for it. The Thornycroft lorry, however, has been barged across and is now loaded with supplies for the journey to the Pangali.

The General's conspirators, the Frenchman Guy Martin and that miserable little man, Helmut Fleischer, have disappeared. The Brigadier hopes they will display more skill at evasion than they demonstrated as spies. Each man bears a copy of Rungwa's defences as near as the General can estimate them. Additionally, they carry his assessment of the character of the defenders and the approximate numbers.

He was surprised at the strength of the soldiers present in this town. Lying on the flank of the main army, it was always necessary to take and hold this place. It was an unpleasant shock to find so many of the enemy dug-in and apparently prepared to fight. Unpleasant too, was the sight of their artillery, especially the large naval gun, now pointing towards his oncoming troops. They need to be told about that monster and quickly.

The General can see an aeroplane across the fields from his prison marquee. Old and obsolete to be sure, it nevertheless provides a dimension to the battle none at his headquarters had taken into account. 'Oh for the Navy, ' he thinks to himself, 'or even the RFC. Just one of our fighters would be all that is necessary to knock that blasted thing out of the air.'

All through the afternoon, I order the Askaris to pile up brushwood around our positions. I particularly have in mind to conceal the artillery as best as possible. I have some dummy trenches dug to confuse the enemy. Although shallow, they still look quite convincing from a distance. Our rifle pits, by contrast, are not so elaborate. They are designed to permit the men to move easily from place to place under cover. The idea is to shift our riflemen into crossfire positions in accordance with the deployment of the opposing forces.

By early evening all is ready. The only factor missing is the presence of the enemy. Clearly they have been held up somewhere by Spangenburg. Obviously there will be no battle today so I return to my quarters and try to rest.

Meanwhile, Spangenburg has been busy; extremely busy. Some 10 kilometres or so from the area known as the 'twin bridges, ' a sunken stream bisects the road at right angles. Along the banks is a line of low brush, as is usual in the area. The road slopes down to a ford and up the other side. During the rainy season it becomes a raging torrent and completely impassable. During this dry season, however, there is barely a trickle.

The stream conveys floodwater to the Rukwa river, many kilometres away. The course is very deep - perhaps two men in height - and wide enough to completely conceal several regiments of cavalry. The bank itself has many rock outcrops that make excellent footholds. The horses can be waiting below for a rapid withdrawal along the streambed.

The Leutnant spends half an hour preparing the position. Several howitzer shells are fused and buried below the stream. Crude electrical detonators have been fabricated and connected by means of spare telephone cable to a hand generator. In the nick of time, everything is ready before the head of the enemy column is sighted in the distance. The men take up their firing positions completely hidden.

Everybody in the column of Lancers is in a high state of tension. They have been subjected to little pinprick assaults by Askari guerrillas for several hours now. Never more than a dozen in strength, these irritating attacks have caused a number of wounded and have thoroughly exasperated the officers.

Colonel Rogers and Captain Harris of the Indian army's 2nd Division see the low brush and the stream in front of them with apprehension. The Captain suggests they deploy a squadron in line abreast across the opposite field, as this seems a perfect place to spring an ambush.

"Damned popping fellows!" The Colonel grumbles, "we're wasting time, Captain. I need to be in Rungwa before dusk."

"Allow me then, sir," the Captain replies, "to send a couple of men forward to the ford."

"I can't see the point, Captain. If there are a couple of those fellows concealed there, we'll take the ford at the gallop and shoot the blighters down along the stream. If we are to worry about every damned brook, we won't be in that blasted town till next week."

With a bow of the head, the Captain defers to his superior. Harris, though, asks his Colonel whether he might consult down the line with the Daffadar.

"Do what you damned like, Captain," he growls, "just lets keep going!"

The Captain turns down the line, looking for his senior NCO. When he reaches a point some twenty ranks back, there is a sound of furious gunfire from the stream.

Spangenburg waits until the head of the column is at point blank range before opening fire. 50 rifles pour a volley straight into the enemy column followed by 50 more. A technique he'd learned in Kenya from the British themselves. The rolling fire dissolves the front ranks of the enemy practically instantaneously. Riderless horses rear and plunge among khaki figures falling and being flung into heaps. In a few seconds, the enemy becomes a swirling mass of horses and running figures as they desperately search for some cover among the low growth.

The second volley is almost as devastating, catching groups of men running into the fields to take up positions. Spangenburg watches an officer trying to rally the men and orders a rifleman nearest him to shoot him down. The man is agile, however, and dodges and ducks as he pushes his men into cover. After a couple of shots, Spangenburg orders the rifleman to give up.

The enemy begins to return a sporadic fire. As it grows in volume, the Leutnant orders the first party back to the horses. A little later Spangenburg can see a number of the enemy advancing at the crouch, firing from the hip, before kneeling to work the bolts of their rifles. He waits until the last party has regained their mounts before leaping down on top of his own horse. Riding down the stream he pulls up at the two men waiting with the hand generator.

"Wait until there's a good number down the bank, Zuni. I shall wait with your horses around the bend."

They acknowledge their leader with a tip of the head. Both these men are volunteers, proud to perform this most dangerous of duties. They watch, concealed, as the enemy appear over the bank and charge down into the stream. The enemy soldiers bunch together in the confines of the streambed and Zuni waits until some begin to creep down towards their position. Grinning to his companion, Zuni winds the handle of the generator.

At once there's a blinding flash, an ear shattering noise and, if their ears could still hear it, a roar as the shrapnel and stone fragments blast the banks of the stream in a deadly shower. Blue smoke and thick dust bring a shroud down over the scene of carnage as the two men sprint for their waiting horses.

Captain Harris watches the object slowly turning over and over before landing back to earth just yards from where he was blown onto his back. The unrecognisable corpse lies smoking amid the scattered debris. Stunned by the sudden explosion, he looks around as his men pick themselves up from the ground and kiss their good fortune. The smoke and dust begins to clear from the little valley in front of him. Some of the Lancers are moving towards the scene, perhaps in hope of giving assistance to any survivors. Maybe just out of curiosity.

"Good God!" He hears the voice of the Daffadar. "What was that, Sahib?"

The Captain shakes his head in disbelief. He staggers towards the stream, the Daffadar at his side.

"Are you wounded Sahib?" he asks.

Harris shakes his head again. Upon arriving at the scene, he is shocked at the dreadful carnage. The artillery shells blew several large craters in the bed of the stream. In that confined space, the explosions instantly extinguished the lives of most of the attacking squad. Shattered and dismembered bodies, blackened and burning, lay in heaps up the stream. Clicking his tongue, the Daffadar mutters:

"A very bad business, very bad..."

Seeing the shock written on the face of his officer, he asks:

"What are your orders, Sahib?"

The Captain shakes his head slowly.

"I don't know," he replies, "where's the Colonel?"

"Back there, Sahib, he was caught in the first volley."

"Dead?"

"Very much so, Sahib. You are the senior officer now. You must give some orders."

"Yes... I must," the Captain agrees.

Waving his arm in the direction of the stream, he says,

"Take care of the wounded, Daffadar, and, uh, bring up the guns and send out patrols. We'll stay here until we can plan a course of action."

"You are no longer going to this Rungwa?" the Daffadar asks.

"Yes, damn it, of course we are! I want the Hun who did this, Daffadar."

Spangenburg notices the new tactics of the enemy almost immediately. Patrols begin to range out, hunting down his little parties. Over the next hour, before the enemy begins to move out again, there are a number of little contests in the races and streams between his troopers and enemy patrols. These skirmishes grow increasingly savage and after a while the Leutnant decides to withdraw.

He has, anyway, fulfilled his orders in slowing the enemy down. They will not now arrive at Rungwa till after dark. Calling in his men, he sets his horse in a trot towards his Kommandant.

Back in Rungwa, the Cavalry begin to drift into town in dribs and drabs. I send the tired and hungry troops to the hotel for a meal and to rest. Rungwa has now become a military camp as there are no longer any bystanders left on this side of the river.

Gerda Carpentier has made her way back across the river to welcome her lover home. Spangenburg looks gloomy and I fear he is about to suffer one of his lapses into melancholy. His eyes are sunken with exhaustion as he makes his report. He describes the skirmish at the ford to me and I congratulate him on his success.

"There's someone there who knows what he's doing," he explains. "Matheus had him in his sights, but missed."

"You think another officer has taken command?"

"Positive," he replies. "I'm sure their Kommandant was killed in our first volley. They marched as if on parade before that. Then they became most aggressive. I think we may have lost up to a dozen men."

"I'm sorry, Leutnant," I attempt to console him. "You've done very well. It is still very few considering..."

"N'krumah says they cut his patrol to pieces, even as a couple were trying to give themselves up. He saw the whole thing from where he was hiding." The Leutnant looks grim. "They rode them down in a race and used their sabres from horseback."

"Should you be surprised, Leutnant, after blowing up their comrades?"

Spangenburg raises his eyebrows and gives a little tip of the head.

"I suppose not, Herr Hauptmann."

Captain Harris decides to encamp his troops some 20 kilometres north of Rungwa. Using the Lyjolas stream to protect one flank, he draws the guns into the middle in case of sabotage. He orders the Daffadar to send out patrols around the perimeter and to shoot anybody at all who comes within a mile of the British camp.