William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

“Normally,” Temple said patiently, “I’d agree.” He paused while Wheech-Browning noisily shifted his weight. “But I know von Bishop. He was practically a next-door neighbour. He’s British too.”

“ Was British,” Wheech-Browning corrected fiercely. “Damned bloody traitor.”

“He’s a farmer. He’d understand, I’m sure. If, that is, he’s there. For all I know the place may be deserted. After all, Mr Essanjee and I aren’t soldiers. We won’t be there long. Mr Essanjee says it’s only a formality.”

“Precisely,” Mr Essanjee confirmed. “A mere formality.” He was standing behind Temple, dressed in an immaculate white drill suit with matching solar topee.

“Well, I don’t know,” Wheech-Browning said, standing up. “I mean we are meant to be at daggers drawn…Mind you, there hasn’t been a shot fired in this area since my old bearer got it in the neck.” He paused, cocked his head to one side and smiled. “Got it in the neck. Not bad.” He paced up and down. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ve got these volunteer chaps with motorbikes: East African Mechanical Transport Corps. I take one out and drive up the road to Taveta once in a while. Bit of scouting.” Wheech-Browning had been seconded to a battalion of the KAR as an intelligence officer. “If all three of us tootled off up the road, I could drop you two off a few miles away. You might even do a bit of spying while you’re about it.”

“Sure we will,” Temple said.

“Capital,” echoed Mr Essanjee. “Capital.”

“Right,” Wheech-Browning said. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

♦

The motorbike was a Clyno 6 h.p. with a side-car. Wheech-Browning drove, Temple rode pillion while Mr Essanjee sat in the side-car with Wheech-Browning’s rifle. All three of them wore goggles. Dawn was breaking and the air was quite cool.

Mr Essanjee had tied a silk muffler round his throat. His white suit seemed to glow eerily in the bluey light. They stopped at the KAR lines at Bura where Wheech-Browning informed a sleeping picket where they were going. Then they motored off along the caravan trail, bumping along at fifteen miles an hour across the flat scrubby desert that separated them from Taveta. Soon the rising sun picked out the snowy top of Mount Kilimanjaro, towering out of the shadowy foothills up ahead. They drove on across the plain beneath a placid gulf of sky, the tiny sputtering of the engine breaking the silence, towards the beautiful mountain, watching the sun creep down its side.

“Splendid view,” Wheech-Browning shouted.

They had to stop after half an hour to allow Mr Essanjee to be sick. He said he found the motion of the side-car most unpleasant. Wheech-Browning and Temple waited patiently, warmed now by the sun rising in the sky, while Mr Essanjee retched and spat fastidiously a few yards off the road, leaning over at an angle to avoid besmirching his spotless suit. He and Temple changed places which seemed to solve the problem. Temple’s weight in the side-car, Wheech-Browning observed, cut their speed down considerably.

They stopped after a couple of hours while Wheech-Browning consulted the map and tried to plot their position. Temple peered over his shoulder. The caravan track was a dotted black line across a perfectly white unmarked piece of paper. Wheech-Browning pretended to scrutinize the surrounding countryside for landmarks.

“Not the most efficient map in the world,” he said with a nervous laugh. Temple, who reminded them that he’d been travelling the Voi-Taveta road for the last four years, said that he thought they were about five miles from the Lumi River bridge. Salaita hill, a smooth mound that rose a couple of hundred feet out of the flat scrub, was a mile or so ahead. Before they reached the hill they should come across a rough path that led to Smithville and Lake Jipe.

“Good,” Wheech-Browning said, taking a swig from his water bottle. “Let’s make a move.” He offered the bottle to Mr Essanjee, who politely declined. “You see,” Wheech-Browning said. “It’s like I told you, not a squarehead in sight. Probably find your farm’s deserted.”

“If they’ve touched my Decorticator…” Temple said, his eyes narrowing vengefully.

“Never fear, Mr Smith,” Mr Essanjee said. “You are covered by the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. Have no fear.”

They came to the track that led to Smithville. Ahead was Salaita, and beyond that they could just make out the darker line of trees which marked the Lumi River. Swinging his gaze to the left Temple could see the rise of small hills among which Smithville nested.

“Huns in those trees, I’ll be bound,” Wheech-Browning said. “I don’t think I’ll come any closer if you don’t mind. How far is it to your place from here?”

“About four miles. It’ll take us an hour to get there, a quick look over, then an hour back. Shouldn’t be too long a wait.”

“Absolutely no trouble. See the outcrop there? I’ll stroll over with my binoculars.” He pointed to an untidy tumbled clump of boulders some six hundred yards off. “See what the old Germani are getting up to.”

Temple and Mr Essanjee looked in the direction he indicated. Temple saw the rocks, warm in the morning sun.

Then suddenly they seemed to explode in puffs of thick black smoke. A second later came the loud report of rifles. The thorn bushes around them seemed to be plucked and shaken by invisible hands.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Wheech-Browning. “Damn Germans! Not even a warning.”

“Oh my bloody God,” Mr Essanjee said and sat down with a thump. He looked in horror at his thigh. The starched white drill was being engulfed by a brilliant red stain.

“Oh shit!” Temple said.

“Ouf,” Mr Essanjee sighed and fell back to the ground. Temple and Wheech-Browning ran over and knelt by his side. Another stain had appeared in the middle of his chest.

“Good God!” said Wheech-Browning, holding his hand up to his mouth. The rattle of firing ceased.

“Let’s get out of here,” Temple said. They leapt onto the motorbike. Wheech-Browning attempted a kick-start, but banged his ankle on the foot rest.

“ Christ !” he wept, tears in his eyes. “That’s agony!” Wincing, he kick-started again and the engine caught. Temple glanced back over his shoulder. He saw small figures scrambling down the rock pile and running up the track towards them.

“Hold on!” Temple shouted. “We’d better get Essanjee.”

“Fine. But look sharpish!”

They dragged Mr Essanjee over to the side-car and toppled him in head first, leaving his legs hanging over the side. Then Temple and Wheech-Browning jumped on the bike and, with rear wheel spinning furiously, they roared off back down the track to Voi.

Some miles further on, when they felt they were safe, they stopped. They confirmed that Mr Essanjee was indeed dead. His suit and jacket were soaking with blood, rendered all the more coruscating by the contrast it made to the patches of gleaming white. They rearranged his body in a more dignified position, so that it looked like he was dozing in the side-car, his head thrown back.

“Damn good shots, those fellows,” Wheech-Browning observed as he wedged his rifle between Mr Essanjee’s plump knees. “He was a plucky little chap for an insurance salesman. What did you say the name of his company was?”

“African Guarantee and Indemnity Co.”

“Must bear that in mind.”

Temple wondered who would process his claim now. How long would it take to find a replacement for Mr Essanjee? And would he be as amenable? He heard Wheech-Browning say something.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I was saying that, if you ask me, the only way you’re going to get back to that farm of yours is to join the army and fight your way there.”