“What’s going wrong?” Wheech-Browning said.
“I can’t seem to get the range.”
“I was told these things were infallible. Child’s play to operate. Not much of a show you’re putting on, Cobb.”
Felix looked darkly at Wheech-Browning. “The dummy rounds. They’re too light.” He told himself to stay calm. He took out his spectacles and slipped them on to check the small calibrations on the sighting mechanism. Everything seemed to be in order. He suspected it must be something to do with the imbalance between the charge and the dummy round. He explained as much to Wheech-Browning.
“Try a real one then,” Wheech-Browning said, taking out his handkerchief and snorting into its folds. “Only for God’s sake get it on target. We’re looking a right pair of fools.” He smiled and waved at Pinto. “At this rate a bunch of schoolgirls could capture the place.”
A live round was loaded. Felix adjusted the elevation and jerked the lanyard. The round bomb sailed high in the air and again landed beyond the bamboo, throwing up a puff of white smoke as it exploded with a very loud bang.
“They make a lot of noise,” Wheech-Browning said slowly to Pinto, as if he were addressing a three year-old. “Noise. BANG!”
“Sim,” Pinto agreed. “BOOM!”
“Come on, Cobb,” Wheech-Browning said in a low voice. “Hit the wretched target.”
Felix loaded another live bomb. He couldn’t understand the gun’s erratic performance. Then he had a thought. If one gun had malfunctioned maybe the other gun was doing the same.
“Just a moment,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with the sight. I’m going to pace out the range.”
“You won’t exactly be able to do that if the Germans are storming the place, you know,” Wheech-Browning said scathingly.
But Felix had leapt over the rampart and slithered down the side of the earthworks, leaping across the ditch as he went. He strode quickly across the open ground counting out the paces through gritted teeth. He was determined to land the next bomb right in the middle of the bamboo stand, and shut Wheech-Browning up for good.
At ninety-two he reached the bamboo and turned round. He was surprised to see Pinto energetically pacing out the distance behind him. The stupid idiot evidently thought this was something to do with the training exercise.
“Nao, Aristedes,” Felix called, with forced geniality, going back to meet him and waving his hands. “Nao importa.”
He saw the puff of smoke from the earthworks before his incredulous ears registered the report from the Stokes gun. He even saw the speedy climb of the bomb, a black streak against the blue sky.
“Run!” he screamed into the startled face of Pinto. “Run!”
Felix turned and began to run.
There was an immense roaring noise. He felt as if he’d been caught by several huge ocean breakers in quick succession, buffeted, lifted, tossed. He felt a searing pain in the back of his head, as if a nail had been driven into his skull. Then he hit the ground.
He lost consciousness for a matter of seconds. He opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by swirling smoke. His mind seemed to be functioning with hypersensitive lucidity: he remembered everything, understood what had happened.
He got groggily to his feet, staggered a bit then looked down at his body. He was shocked to see he was totally naked apart from his boots, which remained. Such bits of his body as he could see between the strands of swirling smoke were either bloodlessly pale or mottled with grotesque livid bruises. Blood dripped from his chin onto his chest. He touched his face and head and looked at his finger tips. Blood seemed to be pouring from his nose, ears and eyes. The back of his head felt numb and wet. He lurched a bit. He seemed to be getting more dizzy, not less. He looked around for Aristedes, squinting through the gaps in the smoke for him but there was no sign. He tripped over the lip of the fresh crater. The torn earth was warm, like bread that has just been pulled from an oven. As if in some kind of a dream he saw what he took to be precious stones or jewels glittering among the steaming clods. With difficulty he groped in the earth and picked one up. He held it close to his baffled eyes. It was a golden tooth. Aristedes had disappeared.
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.”
2: 13 November 1918, Kasama, Rhodesia
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.