William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

He fell back on the ground. He sensed his faculties leaving him as if being tugged away by invisible hands. Through the one remaining gap in the enveloping smoke he saw Wheech-Browning’s agonized looming face, heard his shocked voice, clear as a child’s.

“The lanyard, Cobb. I sneezed. I was holding it in my hand. It just went off. I’m sorry, Cobb.”

Von Bishop looked at Rutke, whose teeth were chattering with cold, even though the morning sun was bearing down with its usual strength.

“If you ask me you’ve got influenza,” von Bishop said bluntly. “But go and see Deppe, he’ll tell you.”

“Oh God, please no,” Rutke said heavily. Three officers had already died from Spanish influenza. He walked off, shoulders slumped, in search of the doctor. Not that Deppe would do much, von Bishop thought. A useless doctor, worse than useless. Von Bishop was still suffering from the high-pitched ringing in his ears which he’d contracted at Tanga. Four years ago now, and still no release. Angrily he wriggled his little finger in his left ear. If anything it seemed to be worse.

He walked out from beneath the awning he’d been standing under and looked up and down the deserted main street of Kasama. A dust road, a straggling avenue of flame trees, mud and wooden houses, tin and straw roofs. Up ahead he could see the men of his company standing guard behind some hastily erected barricades. It was a pleasant morning.

He returned to his patch of shade and told his servant to bring him a cup of coffee. He sat down in a cane chair and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, supporting his head in his hands. He wondered if von Lettow felt as tired as he did. In the last year they had marched south, deep into Portuguese East Africa, innumerable Portuguese strongholds surrendering at the first shot, fighting a constant rearguard battle against the plodding English columns in pursuit. Then they had turned north again. Winding back up through Portuguese East, back across the Rovuma into German East once more. In August their progress had been retarded by a curious epidemic. At first Deppe said it was ‘bronchial catarrh’. Then he changed his diagnosis to ‘croupous pneumonia’. Now after three Europeans and seventeen natives had died he was telling everyone it was ‘Spanish influenza’. Von Bishop furiously wiggled both little fingers in his ears. And the man called himself a doctor.

In October, still pursued by the relentless British columns, the tattered Schütztruppe turned west and invaded Rhodesia. Little resistance was encountered and many stores were captured. Von Lettow halted his small army for a few days near the border town of Fife. Here English newspapers provided the first information about the war in Europe that they had had for months. The news was not good. An offensive had been launched by the allies in September. The Americans were advancing in the Argonne, the French and the British at Cambrai and St Quentin. Von Bishop and many of the other officers wondered if von Lettow would consider surrendering. But at a meeting the general announced that captured medical supplies had brought their quinine reserves up to fourteen kilos, and that they had four hundred head of cattle, sufficient to last until June 1919. He planned to advance across Africa, westward into the Congo, perhaps as far as the Atlantic coast.

And so mobile detachments were sent down the road from Fife towards Kasama. A week earlier von Bishop had marched into the town after the garrison had fled southwards. Shortly after the main body of the Schütztruppe had gathered in Kasama and was preparing to march off again in pursuit. Some patrols had gone ahead. Von Bishop was to remain behind for a few days as part of the rearguard.

Von Bishop looked up. His coffee was ready. His boy had also brought him a tin plate filled with strawberries which grew in plentiful supply in Kasama’s kitchen gardens. He took one of the plump berries and popped it in his mouth, crushing it against his palate with his tongue. His mouth was filled with the sweet juice and the pulp. How Liesl would love this! he thought suddenly. His smile drooped. He wondered where and how she was. He wondered if she knew that Cobb was dead.

He stirred his coffee slowly thinking about that night on the plateau. A terrible mistake. A lack of communication, that was all. That morning he had hastily buried the head and then had made off straight away to the Ludjenda confluence and the meeting with von Lettow. He intended to have the ruga-ruga arrested and executed for murder but they disappeared the next night. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t ask them why they had done it;’ they couldn’t tell him. He had some suspicions that they may have been acting under instructions from Deeg, but that was something else he couldn’t confirm. He told von Lettow that they had found Cobb’s dead body and had buried him. He assumed that Cobb had died from starvation and exposure out on the plateau.

He drank his coffee down and got to his feet. It was over now. He didn’t like to think too much about that particular episode. It had been a tragic error. By rights Cobb should have been with them now in Kasama, along with the other British prisoners in the Schütztruppe column. He checked himself: there was nothing to be gained by that sort of reflection.

He walked up the street towards his men, his mind still dwelling on the events of that night. If Deeg hadn’t given his men secret instructions could the responsibility be laid at his — von Bishop’s — door? Had he done anything or said anything that the ruga-ruga could have construed as an order to kill Cobb? No, he was sure. He questioned himself with punctilious honesty. But he had not ordered the ruga-ruga to kill the man. “Get him,” was all he had said, in a language, moreover, that they could not understand. No, his conscience was clear.

He joined his men. Like him they wore a mixture of ragged German uniforms and captured Portuguese clothing. All their weapons were by now of Portuguese or British origin. Some askaris sat behind a stone wall, others lay in shallow firing pits. Von Bishop’s sergeant, a European, came up and saluted. Everything was quiet.

The sun beat down. The road they were guarding led back towards Fife and the border of German East some two hundred kilometres away. Fife was now occupied by the pursuing King’s African Rifles. Von Bishop stayed for half an hour and then set off back down the main street towards his billet.

Then, from down a side road, he heard the put-put of a motorbike. Curious, he waited. Presently the bike emerged into the main street. The driver stopped and removed the goggles he was wearing. Von Bishop walked closer. He was an English soldier.

“Where is everybody, mate?” the man said cheerfully. “Fraid I’m lost. Can you tell me where the Kasama garrison is?”

Von Bishop realized that in his tattered faded uniform he looked more like a farmer than a German officer. It was awkward but he didn’t have a gun with him either.

“This town has been occupied by the German army,” he said apologetically.

“Oh,” said the dispatch rider. “Am I captured then?”

“Yes you are,” said von Bishop, feeling rather foolish.

“Haven’t you heard?” the dispatch rider said. “The war ended the day before yesterday.” He took a stiff canvas folder from the bag slung around his body and handed it over. Von Bishop read the message it contained.

Send following to Colonel von Lettow-Vorbeck under white flag. The Prime Minister of England has announced that an armistice was signed at 5 hours on Nov. 11th and that hostilities on all fronts cease at 11 hours on Nov. 11th.