Chapter 6: The Battle Continues

The crackle of gunfire can still be heard in the night. The British raiders lie concealed in the undergrowth on the edge of the mudflats. Occasionally they can see the torches carried by the searchers as they fan out beyond the trenches surrounding Rungwa.

"Count?" the Sergeant whispers.

He listens for the names of his little squad. Four, they've lost two men somewhere, and of course the Frenchman.

"Did you get him Sarge?" the Corporal asks.

"Nah. Bloody missed him, didn't I?" he replies. "Where the hell did you get to?"

"Couldn't get in the bloody door, Sarge," he answers, "then that blackie lets loose with the pistol and hits Ramesh."

"Is he gone, Corp?"

"For certain! Then those blighters started shooting at us from next door."

"Fucking cock up!" the Sergeant spits. "Too much bloody racket. If it weren't for that dumb bitch yelling her head off..."

"Did you get a load of her!!!" a Private says, "I tell you, we're on the wrong side, Sarge."

"Old Spangy's toy, no doubt," the Sergeant tells him. "she'll be there tomorrow, Fallon. All packaged up and ready for you!"

"Yeah, about that, Sarge," the Corporal says, thinking, There seems a hell of a lot of them, don't you think? I thought there was only a company of them."

"Maybe they was running round and round in circles, Corp. C'mon, it's gone quiet, lets find a way home."

The men emerge from their hiding place and trudge south, skirting the Westfluss.

"Are we going back for the horses?" asks the Corporal.

"Nope! Hun is all over the place. We'll have to walk."

Around midnight, I decide to call off the pursuit. It is becoming clear that the raiders have fled Rungwa. We would be tiring ourselves out chasing after them. The traitor, Guy Martin, I have removed from Spangenburg's cottage and locked up in the Police Station. In the Leutnant's present mood, he may kill him with his bare hands.

Gerda Carpentier has a fracture of the cheekbone and lacerations to her face. The Englishman gave her a savage blow. Spangenburg's aide is dead. One of the raiders was shot by the Wachtmeister behind the cottage. It appears, at least, to be an even trade. Some time later, some Askaris bring in a prisoner, an Indian caught hiding behind a building. They assure me there are no others.

Before turning in once again, I go and check on Gerda and the Leutnant. She is groggy and speaks in a whisper. Her lover sits in a chair beside her, dozing, but still holding on to her hand.

"Don't let him go after the Englander," she begs, "not for me, please?"

"His duty is to his men," I tell her, "and to you, not personal vendettas. And Gerda, your man has always done his duty."

I take another look at the dozing Spangenburg as I leave. I just hope I am right.

Outside all is quiet once more. Somewhere in the night a rifle cracks. The sound carries far on the night breeze. I hear a far off call from someone to someone else. Horses neighing, animals calling to their friends: the sounds of the African night.

I feel the loneliness of command this night. No Trudi or Hildegard, nor even Gertrude to whom I can share my thoughts. This raid has shaken my confidence, it just didn't occur to me the enemy would carry out such an attack. I guess to some extent, we are the ones that wrote the rule-book out here. Should we be surprised when the rules are thrown back at us?

20 kilometres away at the British camp, Captain Harris has not slept. The Daffadar has not slept much either, partly because the Captain has been constantly waking him up. They stand together just out of the camp looking south, looking towards Rungwa.

"They're late," the Captain tells the Daffadar.

"They may be walking, Sahib. They might not have got back to the horses."

"That shooting earlier, perhaps they ran into trouble?"

"Lets hope that it was on the way back!"

"Daffadar, you are a hard man!"

"A realist, Captain Sahib, a realist."

"Very well," the Captain says. "Let's go and plan tomorrow, shall we?"

"As you wish, Sahib."

As the defenders or Rungwa attempt to get some rest and the British and Indians curl up shivering in their blankets, four men stumble on in the dark. Having finally left the last of the searchers behind, the raiding party resign themselves to a 15 km hike over the rough ground. In front, the Sergeant hurls his ill-fitting Askari shako off into the blackness.

"The Captain's going to be bloody enchanted, ain't he?" he grumbles.

"Wasn't our fault, Sarge. Just one of those things..." replies his Corporal.

"Still, we march straight into the place, bold as you like. Knock on the door - there's Spangy all bundled up with the missus, and what happens? I bloody miss. We go there to get a General and we kill the cook, a right fine business."

"He weren't no cook, Sarge."

"Or at least I think I missed him." The Sergeant looks back, thinking.

"What do you mean? I thought you said..."

"Well thinkin' about it, maybe I ain't so sure," he says. "I mean, that second pot at him, I didn't really see what I hit, did I? That guy at the back starts blazing away - distracted me, didn't he?"

"You mean that guy out the window, the one who got old Ramesh?"

"Yeah, that one! Sounded like the whole of the Hun army was coming up the hall. Me and Avinda, we took to our heels, didn't we? Didn't see what happened to old Spangy."

"Did you see him get hit?" the Corporal asks the man behind.

"I was by the front door, Corporal. The Huns started shooting at me from across the street. I heard the Sergeant's gun fire, I couldn't see anything."

"But," the Sergeant asks, "you didn't exactly see him not hit either, right?"

"Absolutely!"

"So I might have got him, Right?"

"Could have, yes."

"There you go, Corporal, possibly hit him!"

"Wouldn't 'probably' sound a bit better, Sarge?"

"Alright, Corporal, 'probably' hit him, it is!"

Before the first red ray of the African sun peeps nervously from the distant horizon, the sky becomes a blue-grey. Forms, previously indistinguishable from the black, gradually take shape. Faces become recognisable, ant-like figures move slowly and deliberately around the British camp. They seek a breakfast, gather their packs and equipment, or tend their horses waiting nervously at the tether-lines.

At Rungwa, there is growing an air of expectation. Some men have lain in there rifle pits all night, some a short distance away in the waiting areas. The gun crews are carefully assembling the shells and sliding them into the caissons, nose first. Breeches and working parts get a last minute polish, nothing must be left to chance.

Gefreiter Robert Musarewa takes up his powerful Zeiss Optik Militar binoculars and peers out towards the far away British/Indian camp. From the shed roof of the Junker's estate, our former aerodrome, he can see nothing as yet except a grey haze. Beside him is a telephone, it's cable drapes over the roof and hangs down to the ground, trembling in the light breeze.

A 77cm Krupp field gun crouches 5 kilometres away on top of the flat top hill Gertrude Fleischer used to spy on the lake. Nestling snugly behind a native kraal brushwood fence, from the front it appears part of the landscape. From behind, its crew line up behind the fence peering curiously through the branches.

To the Southwest of the town, on an eroded low hill christened 'round top, ' the other Krupp lies dug-in on the reverse slope. As with its brother, a mantle of brushwood has been piled around it and lashed into place with hemp rope and baling wire. The forward slope of 'round top' is criss-crossed with earth works, the red earth piled up in front. Upon a spur of the slope there is a small hollow piled up with branches. In the middle of this perches a grey cylinder-like 7.92mm Maxim machine gun; its three crew propped unconcerned against the bank peacefully chatting.

On a promontory on the river, where the Rukwa makes a slight kink before the mudflats of the Westfluss, the 10.5cm Naval gun from the Konigsburg lies dug in and concealed. Aimed to fire over the top of the town, this gun forms the apex of our three artillery pieces.

Between the town and the estate, and rather nearer the British, our little artificial lake lies forgotten. Its bright changing sheds still sit awaiting customers; however the blue water lies undisturbed this day.

Spangenburg and myself stand by the big bay window in Gertrude Fleischer's bedroom. Strangely, this ornate little oasis is the best vantage point in the whole town. Downstairs, our little headquarters staff finish assembling our telephone system. Helmut Fleischer's card table now serves, spread with maps.

"What do you think they are doing, Leutnant?" I ask.

"They will have sent for reinforcements," he tells me. "They might probe us a bit but nothing serious!"

"I will hang on as long as prudent," I decide. "We should hear quickly if their relief comes down on the far side of the river."

"I have swum most of the horses over. We would need only half an hour to get the men across."

"Good! Let us hope nothing comes unstuck."

Over at the British camp, the four survivors of the raiding party stand at attention before Captain Harris and the Daffadar. They look exhausted after the night's activities. Their borrowed Askari uniforms are filthy and dishevelled.

"So what are you telling me, Sergeant?" the Captain asks them angrily. "Did you get the blighter or not?"

"He was behind his bed, sir. I levelled my firearm and shot at him. The range was no more than 10 feet. I couldn't have missed him, sir."

"But did you see him go down, you fool?" Harris demands, exasperated.

"We got into a fight, sir. The whole of the Hun army was..."

"I don't give a monkey's, Sergeant. Tell me if you got the target?"

"Yes sir," the Sergeant replies, "probably, sir."

"Probably, maybe, perhaps. Dammit man, I need to know!"

"Perhaps, Captain, if the Sergeant is unsure..." interrupts the Daffadar.

Captain Harris looks skyward in frustration. He dismisses the men and stumps back into the tent. The Daffadar follows him in.

"Well?" Harris asks the Daffadar. "What did your surveyors find?"

"Everything quiet, Captain. Many earthworks, but they didn't see much movement. Perhaps they have withdrawn during the night?"

"And left us a few of their mines, eh Daffadar?"

"Probably Captain. It would be foolish to try and defend that place with nothing but a Company of infantry ñ suicide! I think it likely they have gone."

"The Sergeant reported quite a few last night?"

"Rearguard perhaps? It is difficult to tell numbers in the dark. I have encountered this many times... men get excited... see things that are not there! There is only one way to be sure: kick the tiger and see if it roars."

"Yes, let's wake them up," the Captain decides, "test their resolve. These Africans, they're not used to a stand up fight, are they?"

"No Sahib. Shall I take the guns?"

"I don't think so," Harris says turning his back. "They'll get in the way... slow you down, don't you think?"

'And out of range of that Naval gun, ' the Captain thinks to himself, 'just in case.'

"Probably," the Daffadar agrees, "we just need to keep a watch for more of those bombs."

When the Daffadar goes to assemble the men, a messenger arrives before the tent and snaps a salute.

"Dispatches for Brigade, sir," the man says.

"Valise on the table, Corporal."

The messenger picks up the bag and slings it over his shoulder. As he turns to go, he asks,

"Anything further, sir?"

The Captain thinks for a long second. The letter feels warm in his pocket. The letter containing Brigadier General Maitland-Evans revelations about Rungwa, the same letter that admits the assault is beyond the Lancers. The letter that carries the request for reinforcements.

"Sir, anything else?"

"No... there's nothing further."

The Captain watches the messenger mount up and ride off in the direction of Brigade headquarters many miles away on the way to Uwimbi. 'A request for several battalions of infantry, a senior officer to take command, an experienced man in storming a defended town. I will not be thanked if it is merely a wild goose chase. No, I can take care of things here.'

Striding purposefully towards the horse lines, the Captain looks far off towards the morning haze that conceals the objective.

Across the river Rukwa, the citizens of Rungwa stir from their makeshift shelters. Most of the Africans have slept in the open. They are, in the main, servants and employees of the whites, wives and children of Askaris and the favourites of some of the white men. Most of the others have remained in the village across the river.

This is not their fight, many of them think. To them, a white master is just like any other. They differ only in the language they speak. It was only 30 years ago, and still fresh in the memory of some, when the whites arrived. First as soldiers and explorers, then came their messengers of God. Since then, life has not been any easier for them. Sure, they cured some of the sick, but then they brought new diseases with them. They gave them the gift of God, the one who tells them not to take another who is not your wife. Who explains it is sinful to display a woman's breasts to any but her husband. Then immediately they let it be known these rules do not apply to the white man.

Above all, they say it is wrong to kill another. Yet they bring their great engines of war and slaughter whole villages. Now they kill each other, but they don't bring enough soldiers. Therefore they pay the African to perform this duty for them. The British, they bring their own dark people to kill and die for them. They bring men from India, far away across the sea. Why is this? If the whites have an argument with each other, why can't they keep it among themselves?

The white citizens have their own encampment. Now less then a dozen of them, they spent the night in some tents borrowed from the military stores. Dr. Otto conducted the community in a prayer service last night; Frau Otto mustered some nurses from among the African refugees to set up an aid station.

George Carpentier spent the night with his chief favourite, a girl of 15 called Shona. Away from the campfires, they crept down to the water's edge and made a reed bivouac. Shona held him all night, terrified the turbaned 'hairy chins' will come and snatch her away. She begged her white man not to let her be taken.

For many of the Africans have confused the turbaned Sikh cavalry with the Arab slavers of recent legend. Many were not born when they used to come with their black 'catchers'. But they listened to their elders talk of them as European children learn of the 'thief in the night, ' and the 'bogeyman.'

This dawn, everyone is staring out across the river as the morning mist lifts its veil from around the town of Rungwa.

Some 5 kilometres north of Rungwa, the Lancers halt and deploy in line abreast. At the order, they dismount and hand the reins of the horses to the boys to be tethered. The Daffadar scans the defences of Rungwa with his binoculars; he sees no movement.