William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

It was late afternoon. The light was soft and damp. Noting Felix emerge from his quarters Human came over to see if there was anything he wanted. Human was Felix’s sole remaining contact with the Nigerian Brigade, all of whom had been shipped home some months previously. Human had volunteered to follow Felix in his cross-posting, and Felix had been touched and surprised by his loyalty.

Back in November 1917, after von Lettow had successfully crossed the Rovuma at the Ludjenda confluence, the Nigerian Brigade had been recalled to Lindi. There, after a few weeks, they had learnt they were to be sent back to Nigeria. Felix had immediately applied for a cross-posting to the King’s African Rifles — now some twenty battalions strong — on whom the future brunt of the war in East Africa was to rest. For some mystifying reason it had been turned down. In desperation he recalled Wheech-Browning’s offer of a job with GSO II (Intelligence). He got in touch with Wheech-Browning, applied and was immediately accepted. He became a Special Services officer seconded to the Portuguese army. No-one ever thought to check up on his qualifications. “Believe me, Cobb,” Wheech-Browning had said with great enthusiasm, “your Portuguese is going to be the most tremendous asset.”

Felix imagined he would be in the front line liaising between the KAR and the Portuguese units who were being led a merry dance by von Lettow. In a confident mood he sailed from Lindi to Porto Amelia in northern Portuguese East Africa. It was from Porto Amelia that the main thrust in-land by the British columns — designated ‘Pamforce’ by the ever-imaginative army staff — was issuing. But, instead of fighting, Felix discovered that he was to be a requisitions officer organizing food supplies for the KAR troops. He had been sent to Boma Durio, some hundred and fifty miles from Porto Amelia in Nyana Province, which was in the midst of a fertile area of farm land. Here he received his instructions for supplies for ‘Pamforce’. Pinto and his men collected the food from surrounding farms and native settlements and carriers transported it to whichever area the British army happened to be fighting in.

Anguished complaints and protests to Wheech-Browning at headquarters in Porto Amelia had achieved nothing. “You’re doing a vital job, man,” Wheech-Browning said. “You can’t treat the war as a personal vendetta.”

So Felix lingered at Boma Durio, unable to pursue von Lettow, feeling frustrated and hard done by. Pinto did all the real work with surprising efficiency. Felix signed requisition orders, paid for the food and kept accounts. Every fortnight or so he received a visit from Wheech-Browning who kept him in touch with the course of the war and brought him a few home comforts from Porto Amelia.

But for all the deadening monotony of the work and the steamy lethargic atmosphere of Boma Durio Felix found his hatred of von Bishop never left him. He thought about Gabriel’s death constantly, trying to puzzle out what had happened on the plateau: what dreadful struggle had torn up the grass, why his brother’s body had been mutilated. His desire for revenge never left him. It was like the nagging pain of an ulcer: some sort of normal life was possible, but the pain never went away.

Felix walked across the compound and climbed the steps onto the earthwork ramparts. Below the walls ran a deep ditch and beyond that the ground sloped down to a small river. The road from the Boma crossed it on a small wooden bridge and meandered down hill for a mile or so to Durio village. The countryside around was lush. Lining the river were huge stands of bamboo, some of the central trunks as thick as a man. On either side of the track to the village, where the ground wasn’t cultivated, elephant grass grew to a height of nine feet. Anything stuck in the ground here took root at once, Felix had observed. Human had cut some poles to act as supports for a washing line. Within two weeks new shoots and leaves were sprouting from them. Now they resembled miniature trees.

Felix lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the flies buzzing round his head. Two days ago it had been Gabriel’s birthday. He would have been thirty-one. He thought back to that terrible day on the Makonde plateau. They had buried Gabriel at the side of his final camp, in the hollow between the two spurs of rock. Wheech-Browning and Temple had carried the body over and the askaris had dug the grave. Felix had done nothing, overwhelmed by the enormous grief and the surging emotions in his body. They covered the grave with rocks and Wheech-Browning said the few words he could remember from the burial service. Temple had marked the kopje accurately on his map so that they would know where to find it again. By then there was no point in continuing after von Bishop and they had returned to Nanda. Felix had wanted to speak to the von Bishop woman but she and the other civilians had already been moved to Dar. Shortly after this, Temple learnt that he was being recalled to Nairobi. He said he was glad to be leaving. He left Felix to continue the chase.

Felix threw his cigarette over the ramparts and turned to look at the cluster of huts in the Boma. He saw Pinto emerge from their brick building and watched him stretch and stamp his tubby frame into activity.

“Felix!” Pinto shouted, looking around for him.

“Aristedes,” Felix replied. “Up here.”

Pinto puffed up the steps to the ramparts.

“ Telefon ,” he panted, showing his array of gold and silver teeth. “ Wheesh-Brownim. Stokesh gonz .” He prattled on. Felix registered Stokes guns. Wheech-Browning was coming with Stokes guns. But when?

“Um. Ah… presentamente? ” Felix asked.

“ Nao. Eh…Demain. Sim. Demain .”

“Tomorrow.”

“Nao. Demain. Demain .”

“ Sim .”

They nodded and smiled at each other. Then they turned and surveyed the view. It was extremely familiar. Nonetheless, Pinto started pointing out features in the landscape but Felix didn’t understand him. All the same he nodded, and said ‘Sim’ from time to time.

The sun began to sink and the light thickened. In the ditch frogs croaked and the first crickets began to trill. The mosquitoes came out from the shadows they had been resting in all day and began to whine around Felix’s ears. He felt a great weight of melancholy descend easily on him; an acute sense of how futile all his efforts had been, of all the human cost of the last two years. Charis, Gabriel…The list went on. Gilzean, Cyril, Bilderbeck, Parrott, Loveday. Then there were the wounded: Nigel Bathe, Cave-Bruce-Cave, his father. Then there were the unremembered casualties: the men in his platoon and company, the poisoned porters at Kibongo. And that was just one person. Think of everybody with their own list: Temple, Wheech-Browning, Gabriel, Aristedes — then everybody in East Africa and Europe. He could only mourn in the vaguest sense for the others, but when he thought of his personal list of names he felt his anger return. How could he just accept these casualties? He couldn’t be fatalistic about them any more. That was why he had joined up after Charis’s death, why he felt he had at least to try and find Gabriel…He ruefully acknowledged his own dishonesty here. There had been other motives too: fear, self-preservation, worry, guilt. But it didn’t matter. The important thing was that efforts had to be made, responsibilities shouldered, blame apportioned. He couldn’t simply let it go. But he had his guilty man now. Von Bishop carried the heavy freight of all his grievances.

He accepted another cigarette from Pinto, who was still talking away. Felix thought about Stackpole. He had written a long letter home about Gabriel, telling them that Gabriel had died while escaping from prison camp with vital military secrets of an unspecified sort. But then he’d torn it up. It was better, he felt, to let them live on as long as possible in ignorance. He realized he’d been away from Stackpole for nearly two years. To his surprise he found himself feeling homesick for the ugly house. He set his face, feeling an unfamiliar twitching below his eyes.