William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

Standing in the middle of the landing was a very fat man with a thick black walrus moustache. His uniform was shabby and faded. He wore dirty riding boots, a frayed spine pad, no tie and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Felix was only marginally tidier. The closer one got to base, the neater everyone became. Dar-es-Salaam was full of immaculate staff officers. Clearly this man had just come from the front.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning to Felix. “Can you tell me which is Major Bilderbeck’s office?”

It took Felix a second or two to recognize his accent as American.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Felix said. “I’m looking for the same man.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess we just go in.” He chose a door at random and knocked. Felix heard someone shout ‘come in’. The American opened the door and looked into the room.

“God no! ” he said vehemently, and shut the door abruptly. He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs at speed.

“I’ve got to go,” he said to Felix as he passed.

The door he’d knocked on was flung open and an immensely tall thin figure appeared.

“Smith,” it shouted. “It’s me . Reggie. For Heaven’s sake. Didn’t you recognize me?”

The American — Smith — halted on the stairs, turned and climbed slowly back up, his head bowed.

“Wheech-Browning,” he said tiredly. “I thought it was you.”

“Come on in, old man,” the Wheech-Browning person exclaimed with evident pleasure. “Haven’t seen you for yonks.”

“Excuse me,” Felix said. “I’m looking for Major Bilderbeck.”

“Oh, that’s me, sort of,” Wheech-Browning said. “Temporary Major Wheech-Browning. You’d better come in too.”

Felix followed the American into Wheech-Browning-Bilderbeck’s office. They were waved into a couple of wooden seats. Felix introduced himself.

“Dear old Smith,” Wheech-Browning said fondly, paying no attention to Felix. “Fancy seeing you again.” He looked up at Felix. “Smith and I are old comrades-in-arms, aren’t we Smith?”

“What do you mean by saying you’re Bilderbeck sort-of! ” The American said with a hostility Felix found surprising. “I’m looking for him too.”

“You’re both out of luck,” Wheech-Browning apologized. “Bilderbeck’s disappeared. Dead probably. Gone mad, by all accounts. You know the sort, he was one of those fearless chappies, always wanting to be in the thick of it. He used to sneak off to the front lines all the time. A few weeks ago he got caught up in a rather nasty battle at a place called Bweho-Chino. Apparently he used to stand on the parapets of the trenches at night yelling insults at the jerries. Then one night he cracked. He was last seen sprinting off in the direction of the enemy, waving his gun, screaming something about ‘his girl’ and how the huns were preventing him from finding her.” Wheech-Browning shrugged. “Doesn’t make much sense, I’m afraid. He was never seen again.” He threw his thin arms wide. “Sorry,” he said. “But, ours not to reason why, and all that. I’ve taken over from him. Let me see what I can do. This Bilderbeck fellow kept a phenomenal number of files. Seemed to have some sort of compulsion to write things down.” He frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to let you have any information. I think all the gen is classified. Still, as it’s you Smith we’ll pretend it’s all been officially cleared, eh?” He gave a conspiratorial smile. “Fire away.”

“I’m looking for information about a German officer called von Bishop,” Smith said. “Can you tell me if he’s been captured or if you know if he’s been killed?”

Wheech-Browning jumped to his feet and went to a row of filing cabinets.

“We’ve got records of every officer in the Schütztruppe ,” he said proudly. “Here we are. “Bishop, von, E. (captain of reserve). Owns a farm near Kilimanjaro…um, Maji-Maji rebellion…commanded a company at Tanga. Present at Kahe. Moved to Kondoa Irangi. Now believed to be on von Lettow’s staff.” That’s it. If he’s dead there’s a ‘D’ beside the name. If he’s a prisoner there’s a ‘P’. Stands to reason, I suppose. There’s no ‘D’ and no ‘P’. That answer your question?” Wheech-Browning looked disgustingly pleased with himself, Felix thought.

“So he’s still out there,” Smith said grimly. “Theoretically at least. Good.”

“That’s right,” Wheech-Browning said. “Why?”

“I’ve got a score to settle. He was the man who commandeered my farm, remember?”

“We’ve all got a score to settle with the huns,” Wheech-Browning said pompously. “What did this man do?”

“All sorts of things,” Smith said, non-committally. “Ruined me, for one. He stole my Decorticator for another.”

“Oh God, that bloody great thing. Stole it? How can you steal something like that?”

Felix wondered what on earth they were talking about. They sounded like schoolboys squabbling. He interrupted with his own request about released prisoners of war.

Wheech-Browning returned to his files and drew out a small dossier.

“What did you say your brother’s name was?”

“Cobb. Gabriel Cobb, captain. Captured at Tanga.”

“Oh. Tanga.” Wheech-Browning and the American exchanged glances. “Less said about that…” Wheech-Browning ran his finger down the list of names. “Cobb, Cobb, Cobb. No, sorry. No Captain Cobb here. Half a mo, they’ve just liberated a big camp at Tabora.” More rifling through files continued. “There’s a Godfrey Cobb from the Universities’ Mission to Central Africa. That wouldn’t be him, would it? I suppose not.”

He shut the drawers of the wooden filing cabinet. “Drawn a blank, I’m afraid. Mind you, there are other camps in occupied territories. Places like Chitawa, Massasi and Nanda.”

He pointed them out on a wall map. “He may be in one of those. Also,” he added, “the German columns always tend to carry some prisoners with them. Ones they don’t want freed, if you know what I mean. I shouldn’t give up hope. The Germans are quite good about supplying information — deaths, that sort of thing. If we’d heard anything it would be down here somewhere.”

Felix felt his face suddenly grow hot. “What about letters?” he said. “Do letters to British prisoners get through?”

Wheech-Browning sat down. “It depends. We send food parcels to the camps. Any letters usually go along with them. Bit erratic though.”

“Can you tell me if a letter has been sent on to my brother in the last six months or so?”

“My dear Cobb, I haven’t the faintest.” Wheech-Browning spread his hands. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, since old Bilderbeck went bonkers. He’d be the man to tell you. It may have been passed on. We can never tell. We have to rely on jerry supply officers. Not exactly grade-one material, I believe.”

Felix felt only slightly composed. He took out a notebook and recorded the names of the POW camps. Then he stood up and said he had to go. The American got to his feet also. Wheech-Browning invited them both to lunch at the ‘quite decent little officers’ club’ they had in Kilwa. Felix declined, the American emphatically followed suit.

Wheech-Browning saw them down the stairs. At the front door he halted them with a story.

“Listen to this,” he said. “Something Bilderbeck came up with. It’s called the ‘China Show’. It was a plan, he told them, formulated by the Germans to fly a Zeppelin out to East Africa to give aid and succour to von Lettow’s army. Extraordinary idea, isn’t it? Keep your eyes peeled for an airship.” He raised an imaginary shotgun to his shoulder and fired both barrels. “Can’t see what it’s got to do with China, though.”