William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

The thought of food sent Felix’s gastric juices into a pro-longed gurgle. Felix leant out of his grass shelter. The rain seemed to have slackened a bit. Under a tree he saw Human crouched over a small fire.

“Human,” Felix called, and his servant squelched over. Human, Felix believed, was in his thirties. He had won a medal in the Cameroon campaign against the Germans in West Africa. He had proudly informed Felix that he had personally shot three ‘Europes’, as he called them. He had been wounded himself, though, in the process and, no longer fit enough to be a front line soldier, the regiment had kept him on as an officer’s servant. For all the fact that he was fifteen years older than Felix, Human looked remarkably young and boyish. This was partly due to his diminutive size — even smaller now due to the recent privations — and his smooth unlined face.

“Yes, sar,” Human said.

“Food, Human. I need my breakfast quickly.”

Human dashed back to his fire and fiddled around with his cooking utensils. He brought Felix his breakfast. On his tin plate was something that looked like a bluey-grey fishcake spread with apricot jam. Despite the evidence Felix’s saliva glands filled his mouth in anticipation. With a fork Felix broke off a piece and tasted it. There was a strong flavour of charcoal, bland pasty warm flour, a hint of onion, the sweet jam and something else he couldn’t identify. Felix chewed it up slowly while Human watched.

“Not bad,” Felix said. “What’s in it?”

“Everything, sar,” Human said. “And monkey.”

“Monkey? I thought we’d finished the monkey.”

“No, sar. There is more.”

Felix wolfed down the rest.

“What?”

“Monkey brain, sar.”

“Brain.” That was the other flavour…

“Yes, sar. I put monkey brain inside.”

♦

At eight o’clock Felix and his men were relieved on the perimeter by Gent and his platoon. Gent was the most innocuous of Felix’s fellow officers. Gent was always whistling to himself, tunelessly, and when he wasn’t he seemed to breathe through his mouth all the time, his mouth hanging open like an idiot’s.

Felix heard his mindless fluting coming up the path from Kibongo a good two minutes before the man actually appeared.

“Hello, Cobb,” Gent said. “Quiet night?” Gent had been quite portly in January. Now he looked like a sick man, skinny, with a clammy sweat on his face.

“Have you got something, Gent?” Felix said. “If so, keep away.”

“Touch of fever,” Gent said, seemingly unaware of Felix’s hostility. “Should shake it off before too long.”

Gent’s ragged platoon occupied the perimeter trenches. Felix and Gilzean marched their men away, up the gentle slope that led to the village. Once there the men were dismissed, and Felix went into the officers’ mess. The mess, as they grandly called it, was the mud hut with the corrugated iron roof. It had no amenities whatsoever and was only valued as being the driest place in the camp.

Inside were four folding canvas chairs and a trestle table. Captain Frearson was sitting in one of the chairs writing up the company diary. Felix told him it had been a quiet night. Frearson had a plump soft face, like Philip II of Spain. He was a timid, indecisive man whose endless dithering, Felix believed, had needlessly caused them to be isolated in Kibongo. As the Rufiji had risen it became increasingly obvious that they would be cut off yet Frearson refused to request to be withdrawn, thinking it would look like ‘bad show’. He was seeming to be giving way under the combined pressure of Felix, Parrott, Gent and Loveday when the rising waters washed away the ferry and the matter was forcibly closed.

“Any news?” Felix asked automatically. Semaphore and — on the rare occasions when there was a break in the cloud — heliograph, were the only means of communication that existed between Twelve company and the rest of the battalion on the other side of the Rufiji.

“Battalion’s pulling back to the railway at Mikesse,” Frearson said.

“Good God! What about us?”

“We’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. It seems the river’s falling. They say they’ll try to rig up a ferry again.”

It was the first indication that their ordeal might soon be over. Felix Felt an irrational lightening of his heart.

“That’s marvellous,” he said. “Absolutely marvellous.”

Frearson looked at him suspiciously. At that point Loveday came in. Loveday was the biggest irritant in the camp but today Felix’s benevolence could extend even to him.

“ Sacré bleu ,” Loveday said. “Three more porters dead in the night. Seems they’ve been digging up the mule carcasses again. Can’t seem to make them understand.” He shrugged. “ Pauvres idiots .”

Loveday was a brash young man with a thin moustache who regarded himself as a sophisticate, a fact he felt was made manifest through his constant use of French exclamations. In pre-war days he would have been known as a ‘masher’ or a ‘knut’.

“Have you heard the news?” Felix said. “We’re going back to the railway.”

“Yes,” Loveday said. “Not before time, I say.”

The three of them remained silent for a while, taking this in. No bond exists between us, Felix thought. This experience had only driven them apart. Frearson took out his pipe and sucked at it noisily. The pipe was empty, everyone had run out of tobacco weeks ago. This was Frearson’s particular habit which tormented Felix to a near homicidal degree, like Gent’s whistling or Loveday’s schoolboy French. Felix realized, with something of a shock, that during his three-month spell in the ‘front line’ he’d never seen a single enemy soldier. His animosities were all claimed by his colleagues. He found it hard to think about home, about Charis or Gabriel. His ludicrous ‘quest’ had fizzled out in the mud of Kibongo, his high ideals and passionate aspirations replaced by grumbles about the damp and endless speculation about what to eat.

The mess was silent, filled only with the sound of Frearson’s spittly sucking. Felix felt a powerful desire to ram the pipe down Frearson’s throat. His mood of elation hadn’t lasted long.

“I’ll be off,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control.

“Cheer-ho,” Frearson said.

“ A bientót ,” said Loveday.

Felix squelched through the mud towards his tent, suddenly feeling very tired. He smiled cynically to himself thinking about the ‘great quest’ again. He seldom thought of Gabriel; his musings, such as they were, seemed petty and wholly self-centred. He knew nothing of the war in Africa, had forgotten about the war in Europe. Gabriel might even have been released and repatriated by now. What kind of a war was this? he demanded angrily to himself. No enemy in sight, your men slowly being starved to death, guarding a huddle of grass huts in the middle of a sodden jungle?

He was surprised to see Gilzean standing outside his tent. Gilzean reported that Loveday had ordered him to take a burial detail and remove the bodies of the three dead potters. For a moment Felix thought of going back to the mess and making an issue out of it but decided to let it pass.

“Very well, Gilzean,” he said wearily. “Let’s get on with it.”

Gilzean collected half a dozen men from the platoon and they set off to the carrier camp. The three dead men had been dragged from their shelters and left for the burial party. The men were naked, their scraps of clothing and few possessions already appropriated. Their eyes were screwed tightly shut and their huge swollen tongues, strangely white and chalky, protruded inches beyond their lips.

“Poisoned,” Gilzean said flatly.