Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. OSTAFRIKA 07 BY KATZMAREK ------------------------------------------------------------ Author's note. This is a work of fiction. It cannot be used for gain without the Author's express permission in writing. --------------------------------------------------------------- Ostafrika (Part 7) Defeat! Shona Kabentinde likes her new name. It is the same name as her new husband Khawja and, like the whites, she decided to take his name as her own. It is the white custom and she thinks it's a good one. Some of the white customs are strange and harder for her to understand. For instance, the white men take only one wife. How is one wife to cope with the work and the children? How can one wife bring honour to her husband? Her husband Khawja had a senior wife, but now she has given herself to another. Shona was a little puzzled as to why Khawja did not beat this man. She reasons it's because the man is a chief and beating him would cause big problems within the white people's village. Khawja shows her that he is a man of wisdom when acts like that. When her husband came to her father and uncles to ask for her, he had offered them a big bride-price. Her family had been very honoured. Khawja said that she must keep knowledge of their marriage from the whites because they will be very angry. He therefore claimed her well away from them, among the rushes that grow down by the banks of the great river Rukwa. He claimed her while Khawja's senior wife was still living in his house. He told her that she could not come to his house because his senior wife would be very jealous. Shona was angry that she couldn't live with her husband. She would sit by the white's big house for hours and look across at her husband's home. She felt bad thoughts towards this Kherda and was happy when she left for the White chief. Before that happened, Khawja found them an old disused hut beyond the western stream. There were holes in the walls and the roof leaked but Khawja and two of her brothers fixed it up for them. It was lonely out there when Khawja was away so he used to invite her sister and some of the other girls to go out and keep her company. Sometimes they were there when Khawja came and, every so often, he'd have them stay when they made love together. He said the whites do this occasionally to show the girls what a husband and wife do together. She thinks it is a good idea. She even let them help him get ready for her. He would tell them to take off their clothes and touch him with their mouth and hands. Shona would lie on their cot and display herself for him. The girls were very curious about white men's bodies. He will, though, only make a baby with Shona. She had been terrified when the 'Hairy chins' came to make war on them. The German-whites' spirits had been the stronger, however, and the 'hairy chins' had run back to their village as fast as they could go. She wishes the 'hairy chins' would now move their village somewhere else, for it is too close to them. Khawja told her that the 'Hairy chins' are waiting for more of their people to come, and that we must be very polite to them. He said the Askaris will go with the German-white chiefs and leave them to make peace. He told her not to worry because the white chiefs of the 'Hairy chins' will make sure they will not be harmed. She has heard from her husband that his senior wife, the one who left him for another, the one called 'Kherda' has been taken by the 'Hairy Chins.' It has wounded his heart because he still loves her. One day, she knows, Khawja will cherish her in the same way. After all she has his child growing inside her. The white 'Missionary man' tells the African that their spirits are false. Shona doesn't understand this, because she can hear them chatting to each other in the streams and on the wind. The `Sisulu' spirit, she knows, has touched her husband, because he has the gift of knowledge and wisdom. The 'Sisulu' is very powerful and Shona knows she is lucky to have her husband. One day, he has told her, they will walk as man and wife through the great village of the whites and their women will talk to her and treat her as an equal among them. How could they not do that? After all, her husband teaches their children. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, Gerda Carpentier feels nauseous and dizzy from the blow to her head. She lies on a cot in the headquarters tent of the British camp amid the flies and stifling heat. The British medic, who bandaged her poor abused head, pronounced that she had suffered concussion. He has told her she'd had a blow on the back of her head and she was very lucky. Gerda doesn't feel lucky, however: just sick. She is tired of the British Officer's questions. Tired of his grilling her about her husband Klaus Spangenburg. She wishes he would go away but he keeps coming back, sometimes alone and sometimes with that huge Indian. They speak in French, because the Britisher can't understand German. Sometimes he would translate from French to English for the Indian to understand. It is very tedious. There is one thing the English do not know, though. Gerda can understand English quite well, however she finds it difficult to converse in that language. Hence she can understand things she wasn't meant to know. The English call them 'Huns'. She doesn't like the reference to the Asiatic barbarians who raided the glory of Rome. But, she supposes, she wasn't meant to. "Are the Germans so short of men that they get their wives to fly their aeroplanes?" the Captain asks. "And your English women? They do your laundry and polish your buttons?" Gerda replies, petulantly "Damned right they do!" the Britisher tells her, "they leave fighting to the men. Never heard of such a thing among Europeans. Your husband mustn't have much regard for you to let you fly into a battle." "Klaus doesn't tell me what to do, pigs!" Gerda angrily tells him. The English Captain laughs and, after translating for the Indian, he too roars with laughter. Gerda boils with rage. "A frisky mare isn't she, Daffadar?" he tells him in English, "I wouldn't mind training her in a bit of 'dressage'? What do you think, what?" "If she was an Indian wife, she would not be talking so!" replies the Sikh, shaking his head. Gerda understands what they are saying clearly. She sees a red flash before her eyes, senses the bitter taste of absolute hate rising in her mouth and nose. --------------------------------------------------------------- Leutnant Spangenburg returns with the Wachtmeister to Rungwa beside himself with guilt and rage. I have rarely seen him so het up. I too am angry, angry with the pair of them. Gerda, because she has lost our aeroplane, which I have come to regard as a valuable asset, and above all, I'm angry with Spangenburg. Thanking the Wachtmeister for his loyalty and bravery for ensuring the Leutnant's return, I invite Spangenburg into a spare room at the Fleischer's, my command post. "That was irresponsible and unbecoming an Officer," I tell him. Ignoring my criticism, he begs me to send an expedition to retrieve Gerda. "She may be alive, and injured!" he says. "Those Indians, who knows what they might do to her?" "And no thanks to you, Leutnant..." "Damn you sailor!" He snarls angrily at me. "All your polite rules mean nothing here. This is a fight to the death and there is no room for gentlemen. The English know this, and so do I!" "That is regrettable, Leutnant," I snap back, "but you think I don't understand the bitterness of war? I'm speaking of pointless little feuds that endanger the men you have a responsibility for. The Wachtmeister may have been killed. It would be on your conscience if..." Before I finish my sentence, he storms from the room. I ask one of my staff to watch him in case he embarks on another foolhardy venture. -------------------------------------------------------------- Musarewa, stationed on top of the Junker's barn, calls urgently that troops are advancing towards his position. We expected this; in fact, we believed this would be the enemy's first move. For us, the position is indefensible for it is too far away to hold with the troops at our disposal. To the enemy, however, it closes the road north and puts his artillery within range of 'flat top.' Our Krupp gun emplaced on 'Flat Top' is old and worn. Although it has the range to bombard the Estate, we can't guarantee its accuracy at that distance. The worn barrel lining causes the shell to wobble in flight and doesn't form a perfect 'gas seal' for the projectile. Hence the shell will deviate and this, of course, becomes greater the farther the shell is fired. Not so the Naval gun, however. This is one reason we have not ordered it into battle as yet. It is our reserve 'anti-artillery' weapon. I order Musarewa over to our reserve Observation Post on the opposite side of the Rukwa. We have provided two canoes for the man and his equipment. From this position and 'Flat Top,' we are able to observe the enemy's placement of his guns. They have brought two up, one they position in the Junker's piggery, the other behind the wall of the kitchen garden. As to the Junker's porkers, I assume they died on active service. Their only hope would have been if their captors were Mohammedans, for they do not eat pork. Accompanying their guns is a squadron of cavalry. These take up various positions around the buildings and environs. The estate has been well charted for the range takers of our guns. They only need the name of the target and the order to fire. As dusk begins to gather, our guns and theirs sit and watch each other in a tense stand off. Who is going to fire the first shot? --------------------------------------------------------------- After dinner a runner arrives with the news that the main enemy army is closing on Uwimbi. The town militia has fled south for Lettow and Uwimbi is going to be left to the British. Where is their relief column for Rungwa? Not for the first time today, I am puzzled by the tactics of the English. --------------------------------------------------------------- A messenger arrives at Captain Harris's tent to advise him that 'A' squadron and the half-battery of guns have taken up position without incident. 'E' squadron is detailed to protect communications between that position and headquarters. That leaves the remaining half- battery and the regiment reserve of two squadrons to defend the camp against attack. It is impossibly few for such an area of operations and the Captain knows it. He still, however, has not forwarded a request for more troops. Why is this? Can anyone really know what is going on in the mind of the British officer? Vanity? Blind self-delusion? Perhaps a refusal to see he is wrong and a misguided faith in his 'special operations.' He believes he now holds the 'trump' card in his bizarre game of 'cribbage.' Holding the wife of the 'heart' of Rungwa's defence will surely bring the Leutnant to him. Maybe, by way of a 'treat', an exchange of prisoners, or some secret raid on his headquarters. One way or another, he must come for her, and the Captain will be ready. An exchange is just what I have in mind as Kommandant. We have, after all, a British General in our care and surely he must be at least equal to the freedom of one woman. Consequently, I send a Feldwebel over to the British under a white flag to request a conference. --------------------------------------------------------------- Preparatory to the exchange, should it be agreed, I invite the General back from the civilian camp to the hotel for consultation. Over supper, I acquaint him with the day's operation and he seems incredulous. He cannot believe, he says, that an experienced officer such as Colonel Rogers would countenance such an attack. Regretfully, I have to tell him we believe this Colonel was killed and expressed sorrow. As it turned out, they were close friends. We, of course, are forced to converse in French, at which neither of us are particularly fluent. "I believe, Captain, that your protagonist is one Captain Harris," he informs me, "a top fellow but a bit prone to a rush of the blood, don't you know!" I explain that he is not the only one with that flaw. Indeed it can be found in my second in command. "Quite!" he says, "I had the pleasure of his acquaintance from Uwimbi to Rungwa. Bit of a firebrand, what?" "Yes, Herr General. If we don't obtain the release of his woman friend, it may become rather like the Wild West, I think. A personal duel on Main Street." Oh," he chuckles and eyeing my long barrel Colt revolver, he declares, "I see you've come admirably equipped for such a contest." I cannot do anything but laugh at the General's jesting. He is, I believe, a fine fellow. Just before dark, our Feldwebel returns, the enemy will talk but cannot guarantee an exchange. I sense some duplicity is afoot. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Nighttime, sees a dozen members of 'A' Squadron, 2/7 Bengal Lancers, creep through the reeds along the bank of the Rukwa river. Their high cavalry boots regularly sink into the soft mud; it is slow going. The objective, this time, is not the head of a German Officer, but the 10.5cm Naval gun from the Konigsburg. The problem, however, is that the gun sits on a promontory on the other side of Rungwa. To reach it they have to sneak past the whole town and it's defenders. Perhaps subterfuge will achieve what a full frontal assault cannot? It is a manifestation of 'cutting off the head' that so obsesses the British commander. The Askaris, he believes, are no more than a group of unruly children. Removal of the props that maintain their courage, in his mind, will see them fleeing like so many frightened geese. Perhaps, this man sees himself as a General Kitchener sending the Sudanese hordes of the Mahdi scrambling away in panic before the guns of his professional soldiers? Around midnight, they encounter the first sentry post. It is a trench dug across the road with logs and brush piled in front. Pressing forward on their hands and knees, two men approach this post carrying their vicious butcher knives between their teeth. The trickling sound of the nearby water obscures all other sounds and they do their work, silently and efficiently. The next obstacle is the town itself, and to negotiate this they slink along between buildings and water's edge. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Meanwhile, I have requested the presence of George Carpentier. He is an able linguist In French, English, Italian and Swahili. It took some time to locate the man; he seems to be living in some common law arrangement with a native girl well away from the other Whites. To my surprise, the sad man agrees to my request and journeys back over the river late at night. He arrives with a shivering Black girl called Shona. She looks to be with child. Perhaps in hindsight his estrangement from his wife Gerda was understandable. She clings to the man's side like a frightened puppy, unfamiliar maybe to the society of White people. I bring the man to the hotel for a briefing. He insists on bringing Shona with him. The Hotel concierge demands she be taken out, there being a policy of not having Blacks as guests. I insist she stays; after all I want the co-operation of this man tomorrow, not a man disgruntled over the treatment of his woman. The outraged Hotel manager then fetches Inspektor Palmier but to the man's credit, he doesn't intervene. I am a sailor, not a great thinker. Things I've learnt in life have been the skills I needed to accomplish the task in hand. I'm not a great reader of books unless they concern themselves with military or marine theory and practice. Romantics at home may believe that war is a great adventure filled with daring escapades, heroic deeds and such like. In reality it is mostly utter boredom interspersed with tiny pieces of sheer terror. That boredom is often associated with a crushing discomfiture born of disease, unsanitary conditions, fierce heat and chilling cold. The terror: a realisation that someone at an impossibly short distance away wants to end your life. Despite all that there is perhaps too much time where one is left with nothing but the thoughts inside your head. I have listened to the rambling conversations from the White citizens. Listened to their theories on 'Social Darwinism' and the evolution of the species. Dr. Otto swears that the African has longer arms because not so long ago he was swinging from the trees like a chimpanzee. I have no idea if that's true. All I know is that we are all God's children and if we expect the Africans to take up arms in the service of the German Empire, the least we can do is treat them with compassion and respect. --------------------------------------------------------------- N'wimbi Zuni of Spangenburg's 'Uhlan' cavalry was one of the volunteers who exploded the mines at the skirmish of the ford. Regarded as a fierce and brave warrior, he has the reputation of having the eyesight of a leopard and the hearing of a native dog. This night, he is standing on Rungwa's steamboat landing as the British raiders creep past the hotel along the riverbank. Zuni likes to listen to the river at night. He believes the river spirits talk to him in a far more eloquent fashion at that time. The river 'messengers' convey advice from all the Zuni warriors who lived before him. This time, his keen hearing hears something else, something out of place in the darkness. Stepping back into the shadow of the rushes, he crouches, and listens. ---------------------------------------------------------------- I have just achieved some blessed rest when I'm awoken by a flurry of rifle fire. This time it seems to be coming from the middle of town so I leap from my cot, revolver in hand. One learns to sleep in one's clothes so instantly I hit the ground running. From the police post, I see flashes from behind the customs shed by the steamboat landing. The guard has spilled out onto the street and they, too, are sprinting for the river. The firing appears to me to be moving in a southerly direction along the bank so I order the guard to split up. One group I order to go to the landing, the other to follow down the street. It's clear another attack is in progress and the enemy is by the water's edge. I make for the landing to size up the situation for myself. Zuni is there when I arrive, grinning like cheetah. By the moonlight I can see a body among the reeds. "'Hairy Chins'," cries Zuni, "two hands plus two... that way." The sound of rapid firing along the bank indicates that our guards have the enemy pinned down. Two bullets whiz past my head so I duck for cover by the customs shed. The guards with me also take cover and commence firing back. I point the big colt in the direction of the flashes and add my own cannonade. A hatless Askari runs to me saying the enemy have entered a cottage along the way and are holed up there. I follow his direction and shortly arrive at the scene. At the cottage a Feldwebel has taken control. The enemy soldiers are firing from the windows. The cottage ripples with the blue/white flashes of their rifles. "Herr Hauptmann," the breathless Feldwebel says, "I have ordered a Maxim gun to be brought here. I suggest we set it up next to the police station. It is too dangerous to rush the building; we would take too many casualties." "I agree," I reply, "we must shoot them out of there." Meanwhile, their shooting is starting to have an effect. An Askari runs past clutching a bloody shoulder. A second man carries a badly wounded man on his back. The man's head is rolling around and I fear he will not survive. "Get me that damned machine gun!" I yell at no one in particular. After a few bursts of fire from the Maxim, I hear shouting from the cottage. The enemy plainly want to give themselves up. No sooner do we have them march out when I hear the booming of artillery to the north. Obviously we are to have no rest this night. ------------------------------------------------------------- The attacking force did well to advance undetected to within 100 metres of the first line of trenches on 'Flat Top'. Quietly they wait for the brief bombardment from their two guns before rushing the position. Presently, to their rear, the flash and report of the 18-pounders signals the start of the battle. The ground heaves as the shells land upon the second line of our defences. Uttering their blood curdling war cries, the enemy leap onto our defenders and a heavy struggle ensues. While this proceeds, the enemy shellfire creeps up towards our single Krupp gun. -------------------------------------------------------------- Captain Harris waits until the fight is in progress before leading the remaining squadrons of the Lancers down the river road towards Rungwa town. The Cavalrymen are mounted and ride quickly behind 'Flat Top'. Because the ground is relatively restricted for mounted troops, his soldiers are strung out behind to avoid bunching up and present us with a solid mass to shoot at. Taking the inner line of trenches by surprise, they swarm over this obstacle while the Askaris are still wondering what's happening. Now they are less than 5 kilometres from the middle of the town and, so far, nothing has seriously held up their progress. --------------------------------------------------------------- Messengers arrive, breathless and panicky. It is hard to assess the situation because all is confusion with men running to and fro with little apparent purpose. Some Askaris I recognise as part of our northern defences come running past. Clearly the enemy is breaking through. I feel a sharp stab of indecision in my breast. This is the time for quick action but, if I make an incorrect choice, all will be lost. I run headlong down the road, waving my pistol, determined to vanquish the foe single handed if need be. I see movement down the road in the dark; horses and many of them. Just then a shout to my rear, "Alarm... Uhlans, to me!" There's Spangenburg and about half a dozen cavalry. Around him I see more men scrambling for mounts. Riding up to me he shouts, "The gun Hauptmann! Silence their artillery... leave these to me!" So doing, the East-African Cavalry detachment clatter past waving their sabres in the air and screaming defiance at the enemy. I'm driven to tears at their heroism. Running back to the headquarters I scream at the telephone operator to call our gun position. Winding furiously, I see he cannot get through, so I sprint towards the gun myself yelling for the crew to assemble. Arriving breathless and hatless, I see that there are less than half the men present. However this is my craft, this is what I have been trained to do. Allotting the men present tasks to do, I call the range myself. Two men work feverishly at the hand wheels to align the weapon while others carry the shell to the breech. By torchlight I quickly check that everything is correct. In the remarkable time of 4 minutes, the gun is ready to fire. Drawing on the lanyard myself, I do the honours. "BOOM" Our ears are deafened. We rub our eyes, dazzled by the blinding flash. A few seconds later the phone rings, the bells sound like a call to supper in some great house. I pick it up, it is Musarewa from the OP across the river. "500 metres over," he says, matter-of-factly. Such remarkable things happen in war. In the midst of chaos a lone man sits at his post calmly doing his job. I feel a wave of confidence roll over me. Perhaps things are going to be ok after all. -------------------------------------------------------------- Shona Kabentinde's husband Khawja was between her legs when the firing started. As the booming and rattling began, he stopped his rolling movement, listened for a second, and then continued quickly and furiously. It's as if he'd just heard the drumbeat of hell approaching and he wants to finish his mortal life in exquisite pleasure. For her Khawja is not a warrior but a teacher. Now they find themselves in the company of warriors and they're deathly afraid. Shona clings to her man lest he leave for the white man's heaven without her. She had loved this man ever since her first day in class. He spoke to them in their own language, taught them words in the white man's tongue. Told them of the white's homelands where giant metal structures crawl up into the sky. She had listened in rapt attention and dreamt of those wonders at night. Dreamt of ships that float in the sky and villages upon the ocean belching black smoke. Khawja would pick a girl after class to remain behind. He told them they were to receive special tuition. Shona was puzzled at first until the rumours started circulating. She started sneaking back later to watch the girls when they left the school. She saw some come grinning through the Gothic-style double doors of the old building. On other occasions, the girl was crying and holding herself between her legs. A smart girl, Shona didn't need much imagination to figure out what was going on. However her mother and older sisters had taught her well what to expect when a man wants to claim her. They said sometimes it would hurt a little but the pain would soon go away. They had described to her what she must do to keep her man from straying to the arms of another. Before the time came when she would be picked to remain after class, she was ready. "Shona," he had said, "I have chosen you today for special tuition, please remain after class." She had remained, head down as the others left the class. Some of the girls grinned at her, some looked on her with pity. Opening the door at the back of the class to his office, he told her to stand in there and wait. His cluttered desk dominated the room. Wicker screens hung down over the windows filtering the sunlight into fitful rays. Along one wall was a couch; it's floral cover threadbare and stained. When he followed her into the room, he explained that this was a very important lesson, he had, he said, to prepare young women for their future husbands. "First you must take down your pants and show me what you have to offer your husband," he'd said. Shyly she complied, whereupon he told her to sit on the couch and open up her legs. He'd stared at her kitty for a while before feeling and poking her with his fingers. Rubbing the front of his pants, he'd told her she seemed admirably equipped for the task of wife. At 13 Shona had undergone the women's ceremony at their special place by Lyjolas stream. There they had invited the spirits to share the campfire and welcome the flowering of another young woman. She'd winced when the witch-woman had pierced her hymen and brushed her with the leaves from the Tukana tree. The woman of her village had hummed to calm the spirits as her blood dripped onto the sacred soil of the women's ring. Now, barely two years later when many of her friends wer contemplating marriage, she'd taken her future husband inside of her and welcomed his seed into her being. As he'd entered her, she'd wriggled in the way she'd been taught the men like. She'd caressed his root with her muscles as he worked it in and out. Khawja had grown very excited when she did this. He'd pulled aside her shirt and suckled her like a baby. The following day Khawja had requested her to stay later again. No one in the class could remember him doing that before. ------------------------------------------------------------- The enemy troops stand their ground as Spangenburg's cavalry rides full tilt into the middle of them. Amid the rearing and plunging of the horses the sabres slash and thrust the air, cries and oaths and screams of pain. Perhaps lasting but a few minutes, to the participants it seems like half an hour. More and more of the following enemy lancers are piling into the fray behind, until Spangenburg at last leads his tiring troopers west through the native village. The English frantically call in their straying soldiers for the main objective, the town of Rungwa. Meanwhile, Rungwa's main street is swelling with soldiers as more and more arrive from the front lines. The German professional NCO is well trained. He uses his initiative, sees what must be done and takes control. He doesn't mill around waiting for orders or try to muster out his men. He finds a group of soldiers and gives them tasks to do, irrespective of whether they are cooks or cavalrymen. That has always been the strength of the German armed forces, this adaptability. Tonight is no exception as Feldwebels and Obergefreiters cajole and encourage men into firing positions along the main street. Instead of waiting for a senior officer to take control, they quickly stabilise the situation. The Maxim gun used in the shootout with the raiders earlier is fully manned and waits expectantly by my headquarters for the onset of the enemy. By accident or design, I am no longer in control of this battle. In my absence the Hydra has sprouted many heads. Spangenburg wisely doesn't return the way he went. It would invite an all-German battle, as the anxious waiting infantry would pour forth rifle fire at anything trotting up the street. Such is the danger of night operations. Instead of our most experienced Officer, the infantry is under the control of Sergeants. Following the steady advice coming from Musarewa in the OP, I send shell after shell in the direction of the Junker's estate. Our observer tells us the enemy has ceased firing and is attempting to move his guns into other positions. Clearly they are trying to upset our aim. The result, though, means the enemy's advancing troops on 'Flat Top' are doing so without artillery support. Meanwhile the galloping enemy stumble headlong down the main street to be greeted by the massed rifles, and one machine gun, of our infantry. The Officer leading, Captain Harris, has his horse shot out from under him and drops to the ground rolling over and over. The huge Daffadar pulls up and waves frantically to the following riders to retreat. He falls, however, over his saddle and is taken back the way he came by his panicky horse. As the enemy cavalrymen become aware of what is happening, they, too, turn and try to ride back. Spangenburg waits, however, with his cavalry and they pour volleys from their carbines along the enemy escape route. On 'Flat Top', the Krupp gun is able to fire over open sights straight at the scrambling enemy in the lower trenches. When they see, though, the remains of their cavalry returning in disarray, the enemy take to their heels in headlong flight back to the estate. From the town and the trenches, our troops enthusiastically chase the stragglers until finally giving up from exhaustion. By midnight, almost by mutual consent, the battle is concluded and everything becomes quiet once more. Our tired troops lie down where they stop, straggled over 10 kilometres of the river road. --------------------------------------------------------------- Captain Harris, meanwhile, finds himself lying on Main Street while bullets whiz all about him. He lies still as Askaris run past him, chasing the remains of his command out of town. When the furore has died down, he crawls and runs for the river. Undetected he steals a canoe from the riverbank and takes to the water. Paddling down opposite the mudflats, he makes shore and begins his long walk back to camp. What is going through his mind we can only guess. George Carpentier waits by the window of the saloon, his carbine in hand. Shona crouches next to him with the boxes of cartridges. He peers nervously out at the bodies strewn liberally up the street, glowing blue in the moonlight. He will, he's told Shona, sell their lives dearly. However, the enemy doesn't come bursting through the door. Instead, the hotel staff is busy clearing tables for use as an emergency aid station. The Feldardzt prepares his instruments in the corner. He believes they are going to be very busy this night. --------------------------------------------------------------- Gerda Carpentier, now Spangenburg, peers curiously past the guard by the flap of the headquarters tent. She can hear the pounding of horse's hooves, the shouting and swearing of the British and Indians. Through the cacophony of sounds she makes out one voice, an NCO bellowing for order.o "Over there... get him down of his horse. Where's Johnson, is he here? Hey, you! get a fresh horse and go to Brigade... Not yet you bloody fool! Wait till I've given you a message..." "Sergeant, there's no-one behind us!" Gerda hears another say. "Good, grab some fresh legs and go down there a ways and keep a look out. Move you lazy bastard!" Gerda hears the urgency, the desperation in the shouts and the oaths. Obviously things haven't gone well for them, she is pleased. Peering through the night, she tries to make out the English Captain, but can't see him. It seems the British have lost their Officers, for it is the NCOs who are taking control. Presently, the Sergeant gathers the remaining men together in a line. Stalking up and down, he calls them to order, assigns the wounded to the medics, details tasks to the unwounded. "Right, now listen! We can't stay here; they'll be on us tomorrow. Grab your kit and horses. We'll go north across country till we pick up the road. Then we'll head for Brigade. Any questions? "Shall we take the guns Sarge?" someone asks. "Dismount the breechs and heave them into the stream. They'll slow us down. Anything else?" "What about the tents and supplies?" "Burn everything we can't take with us. Now if you've nothing else, we need to move, now!" The men scatter and begin dismantling everything and grabbing what they can. The Sergeant heads to the aid station, probably to make some provision for the many wounded still filtering in. Two men run towards the headquarters tent. Seeing Gerda, one turns around and yells for the Sergeant. "Hey, Sarge, what do we do about the Hun woman?" "Send her over to the aid station... she can bloody well bandage up a bit of the work her fucking hubby did." "Hey, you!" the man in front of Gerda says, "get your sweet arse over there. Macht de schnell, fraulein!" Roughly he pushes her towards the aid tent, the wounded now spilling out onto the ground. "Au feu'" she tells them in French. -------------------------------------------------------------- Some hours later, towards dawn, the little hospital is still busy. Men lie in improvised stretchers in rows outside the tent or just on the ground. Gerda works among them, changing dressings and trying to ease the discomfort of the groaning men. She feels the brooding looks of the soldiers and their attendants. Some of the wounded push her away; they'd rather die, they say, than be touched by a German. Exhausted, she's barely aware of the lightening sky. In the camp, a straggler resolves in the dawn. Hatless and sweating, he approaches the tent, wide-eyed and desperate. It's Captain Harris. "Where's the men?" he asks the startled medics, "is this all that's left?" "Gone sir," the medic answers, "retreating upon the Brigade, sir!" "Oh are they just!" he replies, "and how many?" "40, 50... maybe a hundred, sir. Couldn't say." "As few as that?" he says, downcast, "and what are you going to do with the wounded?" "Wait for them," the Medic says nodding towards Rungwa, "can't move many of them, sir!" "Quite Corporal. So you are to sacrifice yourself into captivity?" "Yes sir... can't be helped sir!" "Then the least I can do is wait with you, Corporal," the Captain says. Stepping out into the middle of the camp, he pulls his revolver from its holster and checks the rounds in the cylinder. Standing still as the rising sun silhouettes him, he faces Rungwa, a look of calm serenity on his face. Gerda stares at the figure. She thinks he looks pathetic. (C)Katzmarek