William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

Presently Gabriel came to a track branching off to the right which was marked by a red and white striped pole. The staff officers at least were doing their job. He walked along a narrowing path, half-heartedly brushing creepers from his face. The sun was sinking lower in the sky and there was an orange-ish light hitting the top of the trees. The incessant noise of firing grew louder as he approached the left wing of the British lines but he scarcely gave it any thought. It seemed as much part of the natural landscape now as the chirping of crickets or the calls of the birds.

Soon he came to the graveyard, no more than a large part of cleared ground with a few graves dotted about it, most of them plain cement plinths or crosses, but with the occasional more elaborate Moorish headstone.

He saw an outpost of the British line in the far corner and began to pick his way towards it. Nothing today had been remotely how he had imagined it would be; nothing in his education or training had prepared him for the utter randomness and total contingency of events. Here he was, strolling about the battlefield looking for his missing company like a mother searching for lost children in the park.

He looked up. The outpost was composed of native troops in khaki uniforms and tarbooshes. They seemed to be bent over some wounded men. King’s African Rifles, Gabriel thought; they were the only African troops in the British army. Then he realized there had been no KAR in the expeditionary force.

At once, instinctively, he turned on his heel and started to run, a ghastly leaping fear in his heart. He heard shouts come from behind. He started to run like a sprinter, as he’d been taught at school, arms pounding and pulling at the air, lifting the knees high. He thumped heavily across the uneven ground, throwing his sun helmet off his head. Faster, he told himself, faster , get to the forest, just get back to the forest. He shut his ears to the pursuit, the drumming of feet behind him. “Don’t want to get caught by those jerry niggers,” the North Lancs soldier had said. So: faster, faster.

They caught up with him about twenty yards from the shelter of the trees. They even ran alongside him for a pace or two, far speedier than him in their bare feet, even when encumbered by their rifles and bayonets.

Gabriel ran on regardless, it was all he could do. Then he felt the first bayonet slice into his leg, a slashing, tearing stroke that severed the big rectus femoris muscle in the middle of his thigh. He crashed to the ground, squirming and rolling over and over to avoid the pronging, skewering blades. They missed once or twice but they eventually got him. He saw the bayonet coming as he spun round. Watched it spear through his tunic. Felt an icy coldness which wasn’t really painful travel the length of his coiled intestines. He saw the blade withdraw, with a squirt of his own dark blood, looked up in horrified disbelief as another man stepped into place for his turn, felt his mouth full with hot, salty blood. He wriggled desperately in an attempt to get out of the way, saw the second blade slice in just above his hip bone, glancing inward off the pelvis, feeling the rasp and judder of the point on the bone. He thought he heard faint cries of ‘ Halt ’ And that was all.

“The North Lancs put up a good fight. So did some of the Kashmir Rifles,” von Bishop heard Hammerstein say to the English officer Bilderbeck. Hammerstein was von Lettow’s chief of staff. They were all riding on mules towards Ras Kasone, two days after the battle. Hammerstein spoke just as they were passing a burial party heaving British corpses onto a wagon. It seemed, von Bishop thought, a tactless thing to say. But Bilderbeck appeared not in the least put out.

“Thank goodness,” he said. “At least someone did.” He gave a cackle of laughter. Hammerstein exchanged a covert glance with von Bishop.

It was half past nine in the morning. The day was growing hot and humid. Bilderbeck was the officer sent by the British to supervise the removal of the wounded and to hand over the large quantities of abandoned stores. Von Bishop rode a few paces behind him and Hammerstein who were chatting away about the war like old friends. Hammerstein’s English, he had to admit, was really of quite a high Standard.

Von Bishop took off his peaked cap and shook his head. On the afternoon of the fourth, shortly after the Schütztruppe had driven the British out of Tanga, the battleship Fox had bombarded the town for half an hour, doing great damage. Von Bishop had been knocked senseless for a few minutes when a six-inch shell exploded nearby. He had suffered only mild concussion but it had left him with a high-pitched singing sound in his ears, soft but persistent, and it refused to go away. This morning he had bent down, placed his hands on his knees and had shaken his head to and fro so severely that he had fallen over from the effort. But still it remained: a quiet eeeeeeeee going on in the background.

He looked at the thick undergrowth in the coconut groves on either side of the road and thought it little wonder that the British had taken so long to attack. He himself had arrived by rail from Moshi shortly after noon on the fourth and had ordered his company of askaris into the attack on the British left flank against the Indian troops of the 101 stGrenadiers. It had been exhilarating to see the machine guns cut down the advancing troops and then to follow in with the charge. That exhilaration had been sustained throughout the day as the British had been routed, until the unfortunate incident with the exploding shell. Now all he could think about was this noise in his ear. Eeeeeeeee . It was driving him mad.

Soon they emerged from the coconut groves and into the trampled open spaces above the beaches. The British fleet lay at anchor about a quarter of a mile offshore, tugboats, launches and lighters plying to and fro between the transports. The red house had been converted into a hospital and was full of British wounded. They were to be evacuated to the fleet under conditions of parole, namely that none of them would serve again for the duration of the war.

Von Bishop let Hammerstein and Bilderbeck go into the red house to administer the parole. He left the mules with the askari guard and walked over to the headland to get a better view of the English ships. There was a pleasant breeze blowing off the sea and he allowed himself to experience the complacent satisfactions of a victor as he surveyed the vast piles of abandoned stores stacked among the mangroves on the beach. Sixteen machine guns, someone had said, half a million rounds of ammunition — even new motorbikes — all left behind by the British when they hastily re-embarked yesterday morning.

However, von Bishop was extremely surprised to see a British officer — clipboard in hand — emerge from behind a pile of packing cases. Hurriedly von Bishop ran down to the beach. The man, who was a major, looked up casually as he approached.

“Hello there,” the major said.

“Who the hell are you?” von Bishop said excitedly. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

The major, an elderly man, was very neatly dressed in gleaming Sam Browne and riding boots. He had curious sagging, fleshy cheeks which trembled when he spoke.

“The name’s Dobbs,” he said, a little nervously now, as if he sensed he shouldn’t be where he was. “Quartermaster General, Expeditionary Force. I’m making an inventory of all these stores we’re handing over. For my records,” he added plaintively. “I’ve got to make a report, you see.”

“But this is ridiculous!” von Bishop said, waving his arms about. “Stay here!” He ran back to the red house, past the long lines of stretcher cases that were now being taken down to lighters on the beach. Von Bishop reported the matter to Bilderbeck, who rolled his eyes in exasperation and accompanied him back down to the beach.