At first Felix found nothing to object to. His months at Kibongo seemed a sufficient ordeal for anyone to have gone through, and life at the rear, though agonizingly dull, was tolerably comfortable. Loveday occasionally made warlike noises (“Aux armes, mes braves!”) but Frearson was insistent that there was nothing he could do. The word was that morale had been laid so low at Kibongo that Twelve company was unlikely ever to regain its full fighting capacity. Furthermore, its ranks had been depleted with sickness and the calibre of the new recruits was only suitable for depot duties.
It wasn’t until a German field ambulance was captured near Mahiwa that Felix sensed any alarm over his lack of activity. He stood at the gate of Redhill Camp and watched the Provost Marshal and his men escort the prisoners in. There was one surgeon, three German nurses and some native dressers. The Germans looked rugged and bush-hardened but seemed quite pleased to be captured. Among the wounded they had been tending when they were overrun were three British officers who had been captured a month previously. They were loudly cheered as they were stretchered into the base hospital. Since then more and more German civilians had been interned as the advancing British columns occupied the small villages and mission stations around the Lindi area. The south eastern corner of the country had become the supply centre for the Schütztruppe in the last year and was fairly heavily populated. As the hard-pressed German army retreated towards the Rovuma and the border with Portuguese East, more and more prisoners and wounded men were abandoned by them in the interests of swifter progress.
It was the sight of these liberated English POW’s that most forcefully reminded Felix of his neglected ‘quest’ and stirred him out of his shameful complacency. He asked and was given permission to go to Kilwa to see if the headquarters staff intelligence department could provide him with any information about his brother.
♦
Kilwa was like any number of East African coastal towns. A palm-tree-fringed beach, a prominent old fort, barracks, a whitewashed church and narrow dirt streets lined with single-storey, mudwalled shops and houses. On the sea front were large imposing residences once owned by the richer merchants and the colonial administrators. He was directed to one of these, which, he was told, housed the offices of GSO II (Intelligence). Inside the hall of this particular building — sturdy, two-storeyed and pillared on the ground floor — was a list of the offices it contained. Opposite the title GSO II (Intelligence) was the name of the incumbent: Major R. St J. Bilderbeck. The name rang a bell. Bilderbeck: Felix suddenly remembered that it was from one Bilderbeck that they had heard the full details of Gabriel’s capture. He felt a sudden excitement. This was surely some sort of omen. He walked up the wooden stairs. At the top there was a capacious landing off which there were half a dozen doors. On a board were numerous typed orders. Loose telephone wires were looped haphazardly across the walls. From the rooms came a sustained rattle of typewriters. Every now and then an orderly clutching a sheaf of papers would appear from one room and go into another. None of the doors had any notices on them.
Standing in the middle of the landing was a very fat man with a thick black walrus moustache. His uniform was shabby and faded. He wore dirty riding boots, a frayed spine pad, no tie and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Felix was only marginally tidier. The closer one got to base, the neater everyone became. Dar-es-Salaam was full of immaculate staff officers. Clearly this man had just come from the front.
“Excuse me,” he said, turning to Felix. “Can you tell me which is Major Bilderbeck’s office?”
It took Felix a second or two to recognize his accent as American.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Felix said. “I’m looking for the same man.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess we just go in.” He chose a door at random and knocked. Felix heard someone shout ‘come in’. The American opened the door and looked into the room.
“God no!” he said vehemently, and shut the door abruptly. He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs at speed.
“I’ve got to go,” he said to Felix as he passed.
The door he’d knocked on was flung open and an immensely tall thin figure appeared.
“Smith,” it shouted. “It’s me. Reggie. For Heaven’s sake. Didn’t you recognize me?”
The American — Smith — halted on the stairs, turned and climbed slowly back up, his head bowed.
“Wheech-Browning,” he said tiredly. “I thought it was you.”
“Come on in, old man,” the Wheech-Browning person exclaimed with evident pleasure. “Haven’t seen you for yonks.”
“Excuse me,” Felix said. “I’m looking for Major Bilderbeck.”
“Oh, that’s me, sort of,” Wheech-Browning said. “Temporary Major Wheech-Browning. You’d better come in too.”
Felix followed the American into Wheech-Browning-Bilderbeck’s office. They were waved into a couple of wooden seats. Felix introduced himself.
“Dear old Smith,” Wheech-Browning said fondly, paying no attention to Felix. “Fancy seeing you again.” He looked up at Felix. “Smith and I are old comrades-in-arms, aren’t we Smith?”
“What do you mean by saying you’re Bilderbeck sort-of!” The American said with a hostility Felix found surprising. “I’m looking for him too.”
“You’re both out of luck,” Wheech-Browning apologized. “Bilderbeck’s disappeared. Dead probably. Gone mad, by all accounts. You know the sort, he was one of those fearless chappies, always wanting to be in the thick of it. He used to sneak off to the front lines all the time. A few weeks ago he got caught up in a rather nasty battle at a place called Bweho-Chino. Apparently he used to stand on the parapets of the trenches at night yelling insults at the jerries. Then one night he cracked. He was last seen sprinting off in the direction of the enemy, waving his gun, screaming something about ‘his girl’ and how the huns were preventing him from finding her.” Wheech-Browning shrugged. “Doesn’t make much sense, I’m afraid. He was never seen again.” He threw his thin arms wide. “Sorry,” he said. “But, ours not to reason why, and all that. I’ve taken over from him. Let me see what I can do. This Bilderbeck fellow kept a phenomenal number of files. Seemed to have some sort of compulsion to write things down.” He frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to let you have any information. I think all the gen is classified. Still, as it’s you Smith we’ll pretend it’s all been officially cleared, eh?” He gave a conspiratorial smile. “Fire away.”
“I’m looking for information about a German officer called von Bishop,” Smith said. “Can you tell me if he’s been captured or if you know if he’s been killed?”
Wheech-Browning jumped to his feet and went to a row of filing cabinets.
“We’ve got records of every officer in the Schütztruppe,” he said proudly. “Here we are. “Bishop, von, E. (captain of reserve). Owns a farm near Kilimanjaro…um, Maji-Maji rebellion…commanded a company at Tanga. Present at Kahe. Moved to Kondoa Irangi. Now believed to be on von Lettow’s staff.” That’s it. If he’s dead there’s a ‘D’ beside the name. If he’s a prisoner there’s a ‘P’. Stands to reason, I suppose. There’s no ‘D’ and no ‘P’. That answer your question?” Wheech-Browning looked disgustingly pleased with himself, Felix thought.
“So he’s still out there,” Smith said grimly. “Theoretically at least. Good.”