“Actually I did kill a Russian once,” Bilderbeck mused. “In Constantinople.” Bilderbeck paused. “What do you think of this lot?” Bilderbeck jerked his thumb in the direction of the officers’ quarters.
“I haven’t really got to know them,” Gabriel said.
“Sportsmen,” Bilderbeck sneered. “If they’re not senile all they think about is ponies and women.” He darted a look at Gabriel, smiling weirdly again.
“I shall find my girl,” he said suddenly. “I know I will.”
“Your girl?” Gabriel repeated, mystified at this turn the conversation had taken.
“One day I shall find her.”
Gabriel wondered what he was talking about. “Yes,” he said safely. “I expect you shall.”
“You’re married aren’t you?” Bilderbeck said. “Love your wife?”
“What…? Yes, I do, yes.”
“My God,” Bilderbeck said, shaking his head in wonder. “Is she your girl, then?”
Gabriel thought it best to agree. “Yes,” he said simply.
“Hah!” Bilderbeck gave a cynical laugh. “Sportsmen! Treat the army like a social club.”
♦
Indian Expeditionary Force ‘B’ sailed on steadily towards Africa. Sheer desperation eventually forced the troops on the Homayun to search for some form of distraction. When they crossed the equator they had a crossing-of-the-line ceremony. The Captain of the ship was Neptune. All the officers under thirty were initiated. Gabriel was copiously lathered, shaved with a three foot long wooden razor and was then thrown into the sailbath.
This effort seemed to stimulate the others and one night shortly after they had a concert — a piano and two mouth organs. A downpour drenched them half-way through but the men played on and the audience remained heedless of the rain.
As they sailed south the weather grew hotter and hotter. The doctor spent his day moving among the crew with pitchers of lime cordial. Every three days they had to drink a glass of quinine dissolved in water.
Lt Col. Coutts fell down a flight of steps, was concussed and broke one of his ribs. The news drew a loud snort of disgust from Bilderbeck. Gabriel felt quite sorry for Coutts who was a kindly and lazy old chap in his late fifties. Gamely enough, he was up and about after a couple of days but was clearly in some pain and discomfort. However they were nearing their destination and a slight air of tension was beginning to percolate through the ship so expressions of sympathy were few and far between. Bilderbeck made a trip over to the Kamala, a P&O liner, to pass on his maps, notes and opinions to General Aitken, the commander-in-chief.
The final distraction of the voyage was less happy. One of the sailors on the Homayun had, it so appeared, been found guilty of plotting mutiny. For this crime he was sentenced to six months imprisonment and twelve lashes from the cat o’ nine tails. All the officers on the Homayun were invited along as witnesses. Gabriel went with some misgivings and stood uneasily beside Bilderbeck. The whipping was to be administered by the boatswain of the Goliath, a large man with a bulging ruddy face. In his hands the cat o’ nine tails looked very small and curiously inoffensive. The culprit was brought out, bare-chested, and tied to a wooden triangle, hastily constructed by the ship’s carpenters, his hands at the peak and his feet spread to the other two points. The sentence was read out and the boatswain whipped the man very quickly. The prisoner’s back turned bright pink before their eyes and the skin broke by the seventh or eighth lash. At the end the boatswain was panting heavily from his exertions. Gabriel felt more shocked than sickened.
“This is 1914, not the Crimea,” he protested to Bilderbeck as they walked back to the officers’ quarters. “It’s barbaric.”
“No,” Bilderbeck said firmly. “Mutiny in time of war.” He flashed a quick smile. “I’d have had him shot.”
♦
On the thirtieth of October the convoy halted about a hundred miles off Mombasa. Gabriel felt a pressure steadily build up in his lungs, a sense of nervous anticipation that he couldn’t shake off and that left him feeling permanently slightly breathless. He paced about the decks all day experimenting with impromptu breathing exercises: holding his breath, breathing shallowly, inhaling deeply and letting the air out of his lungs as slowly as possible. But none of this worked.
He saw another battleship steam out from the direction of land. Shortly after, Bilderbeck was summoned over to it and a boat was lowered for him. That evening the battleship — the Fox — steamed with the Kartnala.
The convoy sat off Mombasa for another two days. Gabriel inspected his men. They were weary and disgruntled, many of them having been sea-sick for a full month. He got some of them up on deck for PT but the resulting shambles was so embarrassing that he dismissed them after five minutes.
The Karmala returned to the convoy and Bilderbeck came back to the Homayun to pick up his kit. He was to be permanently attached to General Aitken’s staff. Gabriel stood in the doorway of the cabin watching Bilderbeck pack.
“Where are we going?” Gabriel asked. “Dar-es-Salaam?”
“I shouldn’t really tell you,” Bilderbeck said. “But no. It’s Tanga.”
“Oh,” Gabriel said. He’d seen Tanga on one of Bilderbeck’s maps. A port to the north of Dar, starting point for the northern railway that ran up to Kilimanjaro.
“Got a pillow?” Bilderbeck asked, holding up his own.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I have. Why?”
“And a basin? Pillow and a basin. The two most essential pieces of equipment to have on active service. Get some decent sleep and have a chance for a wash and a shave. Always make sure you’ve got them with you. Best advice I can give.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said distractedly. “Yes, I’ve got both.” He paused. “Are we invading Tanga?”
“That’s the idea,” Bilderbeck said, a look of withering cynicism on his face. “It’s the first invasion of a hostile beach for forty years or thereabouts, and they pick this lot.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head sorrowfully. “There’s another problem, though. It seems the Navy made a truce with the German governor in Tanga at the very beginning of the war. Now the Navy are insisting that we must inform the authorities there that ‘belligerent hostilities’ are going to be resumed. They feel their dignity demands an official abrogation of the truce.” Bilderbeck’s face lit up in one of his most beaming smiles.
“Good Lord.” Gabriel sat down on his bunk. “Isn’t that a bit…? I mean, won’t they know then that we’re going to attack?”
“Of course they will.” Bilderbeck gave a great hoot of laughter. “Of course they will. But try telling that to the Navy.” He rubbed his hands together like a fly. His mood seemed one of profound satisfaction, as if he’d just had some hotly disputed fact confirmed in his favour. “Remember,” he said, looking up. “Whatever happens, don’t forget your pillow and basin.”
5: 2 November 1914, Tanga, German East Africa
Gabriel stood at the rail of the Homayun and gazed out at the shoreline a mile away. It was six o’clock in the evening. He looked down at the map in his hand and then back again at the shore. What he was looking at, he calculated, was the headland called Ras Kasone that jutted out on the southern side of Tanga bay. Behind the lee of the headland, about two miles distant, lay the town of Tanga which, from his position, was invisible. At the tip of the headland was a signal tower, and nearby that was a white stone house. Five hundred yards down, to the left of the white house, was a red house. All of these buildings seemed deserted, though the German flag flew from the signal tower. From what he could see through the thickening dusk the shore facing him was composed of cliffs, at the bottom of which was dense and tangled vegetation, and curious twisted trees which he had been told were mangroves. Beneath the red house, however, was a beach some two hundred yards long. This, according to Lt Col. Coutts, was where the Palamcottahs were to land later tonight: Beach ‘A’.