“I am sorry about all this,” von Bishop said equably. “We have to commandeer any transport and destroy all crops.”
“What? Even those in the fields?”
Von Bishop shrugged. “Orders, I’m afraid.” Then he laughed…“Don’t worry, Smith, I won’t try too hard in your case. After all, we are almost next-door neighbours.”
He seemed quite unconcerned, Temple thought. He tried to summon up a rage or a sense of injustice, but von Bishop’s easygoing manner made it appear somehow inappropriate, an overreaction, even a discourtesy. He looked away and saw his two boys dancing merrily around the pyre of sisal fibres.
“GET AWAY FROM THERE!” he bellowed, taking out his frustration on them. “Go and help your mother pack.” They ran off obediently. Von Bishop had obligingly left them an old buggy and two mules in which they were to travel to Voi. Von Bishop said that, theoretically, he should have interned them, but as Temple was an American citizen he’d let them go. Matilda and Joseph were hastily getting their personal possessions together and a squad of farm boys were relaying them from the house to the buggy.
Von Bishop told Temple about the capture of Taveta. The invading Germans, about four companies strong, had crossed the border and had sent a note to Wheech-Browning and his police askaris telling them that they intended to occupy the town and that he had one hour to evacuate. In fact they waited overnight, and in the morning marched down the road into Taveta. Wheech-Browning’s men opened fire and the Germans reassembled for a frontal attack. But when they cautiously advanced they discovered that Wheech-Browning and his men had disappeared.
Temple thought this highly characteristic of Wheech-Browning and was about to tell von Bishop a few home truths about his adversary, when a loud clanging noise came from the Decorticator shed.
“My God!” Temple cried and ran forward. Von Bishop made no attempt to restrain him. Inside the shed he found the other German officer banging experimentally at the Decorticator and some of the steel girders supporting the roof with a hammer.
“Hey! Stop it!” Temple shouted, snatching the hammer away. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” But the man didn’t speak English. Von Bishop said something to him in German and he shrugged and wandered off.
“Nobody touches that machine, Erich,” Temple said warningly to von Bishop. “Everything is tied up in that machine, one way or another. Burn the crops if you must, but leave this alone.”
Von Bishop looked around the shed. “So this is the factory you told me about. Very impressive I must say. Is it economically viable, though? With such a small acreage?” For a few minutes they talked about the pros and cons of independently producing your own sisal fibre, Temple searching his machine for any dents and scratches caused by the hammering. They were interrupted by Saleh who told them that everyone was ready and the buggy was loaded.
Von Bishop and Temple left the shed, Temple taking a final fond look at the Decorticator. Outside he saw his wife and children gathered in a small group curiously watching the German askaris ripping up his trolley lines supervised and directed by the other European officer.
“For God’s sake!” Temple exclaimed. “What’s wrong with that man? Is he some kind of vandal? Got this urge to destroy?”
This time von Bishop did place a restraining hand on Temple’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Trolley lines are required. So is fencing wire. You’re lucky, I see you have no wire fences.”
“Oh yes,” Temple said sardonically. “I’m a lucky man.”
“Well,” von Bishop said, his breeziness returning. “Fortunes of war and all that.”
Temple shook his head and kicked angrily at a stone. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. Fortunes of war, he thought. It didn’t feel in the least bit like a war, yet there were enemy soldiers with loaded weapons forcibly ejecting him from his property. Von Bishop was behaving like a man who’d come round to reclaim a book he’d once lent. Temple watched sections of his trolley line being prized from the dusty and unyielding ground. Then he had an idea. Reparations, he thought, I can demand reparations. He started doing quick sums in his head. Often this sort of disaster could be turned to your advantage. It should be seen as an opportunity for a fresh start: a chance to re-think and re-plan. He’d always regretted not laying the trolley lines closer to Lake Jipe…now, with his reparations, was the ideal time to redirect them. He turned back to von Bishop.
“You’re right, Erich. Fortunes of war. Could you provide me with a…I don’t know, an affidavit or something? Just so I can prove things have been commandeered.”
“Yes, of course,” von Bishop said. “With pleasure.” He called the other officer over and told him to make out a careful note of everything that had been taken or destroyed.
“What about the house?” Temple asked.
“I suppose I might billet some men here,” von Bishop said. “It commands a good position on the hill. We can’t pay you rent,” he laughed. “Doubtless there’ll be some minor breakages, wear and tear. Who knows, we might even finish building it for you.”
Temple smiled, even the sight of a thin plume of smoke rising from the linseed fields didn’t give him pause. Von Bishop signed the piece of paper and tore it out of the officer’s notebook. Temple looked it over.
“Imperial German…Erich von Bishop, Major. That’s excellent, Erich. Excellent.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Just don’t touch the Decorticator that’s all. My future’s in that machine. I’ll come all the way to Dar to get you otherwise.”
The two men laughed heartily.
“We have our own decorticators, Smith,” von Bishop said. “We don’t need yours. Krupps Decorticators. Very efficient. One hundredweight of fibre an hour. Much better than your American machines.”
They were walking back to the buggy which now contained his family as well as their possessions.
“I don’t know about that,” Temple said. “Finnegan and Zabriskie are renowned”—he paused. “Krupps, did you say? Is there an agent in Mombasa, do you know?”
Saleh and the farm boys were ranged beside the buggy. They all wore uniform expressions of deep misery, glancing uneasily about them at the armed askaris.
“Don’t worry, Saleh,” Temple said quietly, confident that he wouldn’t. “Keep an eye on the place. Look after the farm and the Decorticator. We’ll be back in two months.” He gave the man an encouraging slap on the back and climbed up on to the buggy. Matilda sat beside him, still reading her book. The children nestled in the back among the trunks and bundies of clothes and bedding, protected from the sun by a makeshift canvas shelter. The ayah sat on the back, her feet hanging down, crying piteously. She was the only one who seemed obviously affected by the occasion.
“Well goodbye, Smith,” von Bishop said. “Mrs Smith. I’m so sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.” He touched the brim of his sun helmet in a casual salute.
Temple shook the reins and the mules moved forward. “Remember,” Temple called back to von Bishop, “look after the machine. I’m holding you responsible.”
Von Bishop laughed again and waved. Seeing him do this all the farm boys laughed politely and waved too. This is most strange, thought Temple, it’s as if we’re being seen off on holiday.
At the top of the rise, just before Smithville was lost to sight, Temple looked back. Smoke still rose from the sisal bonfire and at least half his linseed fields seemed ablaze. The gang of askaris had uprooted some fifty yards of trolley line and were piling the rails in neat bundies. Von Bishop was leading half a dozen soldiers up the hill to the house.