Coach s Winter Retreat
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OstafrikaChapter 8: Retreat free porn video
Gerda and the first aid party try an erect some canvas shelters over the wounded lying on the ground. In the middle of the camp, the Captain remains standing, as the sun gets higher in the sky. A man takes him some water; he doesn't acknowledge or attempt to take the bottle. The man leaves it on the ground next to him.
It is about mid-morning before they see movement along the road from Rungwa, a party of riders and some wagons. The first-aiders watch nervously as the distant procession makes it's way towards them.
They see the Captain check his revolver again and then hold it in two hands across the front of his body.
Presently, the party of riders approach. Gerda's heart leaps as she spots her Leutnant beside me. Leaps with delight and apprehension as she eyes the bitter English Captain.
I also have George Carpentier beside me as interpreter. Tucked in behind him in the saddle is his native companion Shona. She refuses to leave his side.
I have tried to achieve some respectability, a bath and my full white Naval uniform. The Leutnant is in the same Khaki with which he went to battle last night. As usual his battered wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned to the crown, graces his head. Attached to the East African badge is the black and white hackle of the Uhlans.
Seeing the Captain standing there all alone, I trot my horse to him and ask for his firearm. There is no response, therefore I ask George Carpentier to translate for me.
"The Hauptmann asks for your weapon," George tells him in English.
Still the man does not look up. He seems completely broken, so I search around for someone else to whom I may communicate. Presently a Corporal with the red cross of the Medical Corps on his arm approaches. Through Carpentier, I ask him what his needs are.
He begs assistance with the wounded for they are overwhelmed. I have brought some wagons so I suggest we take all those able to travel back to Rungwa. The Corporal gratefully accepts our offer.
"Corporal, would you be so kind as to prevail upon your Captain to give up his weapon? I cannot permit him to go armed," I ask the man.
"I'll try sir," he replies, "but the Captain... he's not himself sir."
Before he reaches the Officer, Harris spins on his heels and comes over to me. He hands the revolver, butt first to me and stiffly bows.
"I am Captain Harris, sir, senior Officer."
"Hauptmann Ritter," I tell the Britisher, "Kommandant of Rungwa."
"Ah and Leutnant Spangenburg is..."
I look around to find Spangenburg in the arms of Gerda Carpentier.
"The Leutnant is busy," I tell the Captain.
Having overseen the situation at the British camp, I ride with the British Captain back to Rungwa. He speaks little, but is polite and civil. Upon his face is an expression similar to euphoria. I fear the Britisher has quite lost his wits.
Leutnant Spangenburg has elected to remain behind with Gerda, who has chosen to care for a number of the British wounded. Carpentier, therefore, accompanies me as interpreter, his Black woman tucked behind his back.
Back at Rungwa, I take the Captain to the hotel to meet his General. I give them a few moments alone. I presume they have much to talk about.
"Sorry business, old boy!" the General tells the Captain. "Damn it man, didn't you get my dispatch? Bloody French! Never should have relied on the bounder."
"I received your letter, sir," the Captain replies.
"Well!" the General blusters, "why the deuce didn't you act on it?"
"I... I don't know sir," the Captain says miserably.
"Don't know? What the devil an answer is that. Don't know? You're a commissioned Officer in His Majesty's Imperial Armed Forces, what the hell do you mean by 'you don't know.' You're supposed to know, God damn it!"
"Sir, I believed I could carry out my orders. I didn't want to distract Brigade from it's objective."
"What? That, my boy, is not your business. You've taken far too much upon yourself. What General Aitken chooses to do with the army is HIS business. Your duty was to inform him, Captain, and allow HIM to assess what to do. You've behaved like a damned amateur! Allowed yourself to be embarrassed by a rag-tag bunch of Hun part-timers and a crowd of milling Africans. This will just not do, Captain, not do at all!"
"Sorry sir..."
"Damned right you're sorry, Captain. And I'll make sure you stay sorry. You shall never, sir, command soldiers again, if I have anything to do with it. Frightful mess!"
Sullen and dispirited following his audience with the General, Harris stumps off under guard to his lodgings in another room at the hotel.
By the end of a day's hard riding, the Lancers' messenger comes into contact with the patrols of the British Expeditionary Force. It takes him another 2 hours to find Major General Aitken, the Force Commander. Exhausted and barely able to utter a sound, he brings the first word of the disaster at Rungwa. The General promptly calls a conference of his senior Officers and orders the Messenger to attend on them.
Now with the British army, as with all armies, a private is reduced to a quivering wreck in the presence of Generals. The poor Lancer is mercilessly grilled by these Officers as they try to gain a picture of the strategic situation.
Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck has led these Generals a merry dance throughout the colony of East-Africa. Consistently out-foxed, they are beginning to believe the German commander is a magician, able to know their decisions the instant they make them. Receiving little by way of intelligence from Mozambique, and then only from some panicky Portuguese, they begin to form the belief that our General has done it again. Perhaps, they believe, Lettow has outflanked them and is heading north as they head south. It would, after all, be typical of the man. This has been the only concrete sign of German arms for weeks and not from Portuguese Mozambique, but square on their flank.
They must, therefore, conform to Lettow's movements, as they understand them. Turn towards Rungwa, secure the town, then pursue Lettow North. Consequently orders are sent throughout the entire 55000-man army. They are to head for Rungwa by way of the headwaters of the river Rukwa.
The British and Indian refugees come straggling in towards the main army. Each has a tale to tell, one of courage and tenacity in the face of overwhelming might. None of these men, however, is party to the full picture. The only ones who know the reality of what went on there, are enjoying the hospitality of the Rungwa hotel.
Consequently, the British Generals hear of ambushes by superior numbers, each brilliantly executed by von Lettow himself. Indeed, some remember the General on a tall white charger... or black, directing proceedings personally. Few of these men would argue that they haven't been in a fight with the entire German defence force. Surely Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck is the only one capable of defeating the Bengal Lancers. All this confirms to the Generals that they are correct. Von Lettow is heading north and has just smashed the Rungwa scouting force. So the pattern here continues.
Such faulty military intelligence is not unknown throughout history and certainly not the preserve of the British Army. It is exacerbated, however, with the remoteness and vastness of Africa and the long lines of communications. It doesn't help, though, having the brooding hostility or indifference of the population to contend with. If only the British paid more attention to the natives, for they have an excellent communication network of their own, then perhaps their fortunes may have been better.
Within a day, we know the enemy is moving upon us with his full force.
Now is the time of anxious waiting. We must confirm the enemy's line of march before choosing the route for our withdrawal. Then we must ensure they have put as much distance between themselves and the river Pangali as possible. Thus we will give ourselves the best chance of meeting our waiting steamer unmolested.
At the average speed of a marching army, consisting mostly of walking infantry, it should take them five days to reach Rungwa at their best speed. That is presupposing they are not held up somewhere by unseasonal rains, broken bridges and such like. I intend to wait until they are but one day's march away before effecting the withdrawal.
The saloon of the Rungwa Hotel is now cluttered with wounded men of both sides. There are perhaps close to 100 souls with various wounds ranging from the life threatening to broken bones and such like. Through the day, more men are found and brought in, some suffering terribly from dehydration having been left under the hot sun all morning.
Some of the more grievously injured, those not expected to live, still lie in the tiny British hospital tent some 20 kilometres away. Gerda, however, and the Leutnant return accompanying the wagons containing the less seriously wounded British and Indians.
This is an emergency that recognises no National boundaries. British and German medics tend each other's soldiers sharing the common denominator of humanity. In the middle of such bitterness this is a miracle and a sight that gives us hope for the future.
The civilians over the river have all returned to their homes. Dr Otto and Frau Otto have immediately taken charge of our hospital. Other of the citizens are busy patching up any damage their houses suffered last night. The erstwhile owner of the cottage that houses Spangenburg, a trader, berates me as to its condition. He tells me it's full of bullet holes and demands it be repaired to his satisfaction. I have, I tell him, rather more pressing matters than the repair of a cottage.
Some of the white residents of Rungwa pitch in and help with the wounded. Others however seem more interested in their own comfort. This is often the way. George Carpentier, and indeed all the English speakers, are performing translation duties. His Shona wanders around after him somewhat at a lost.
The Brigadier comes down from his rooms upstairs and offers comfort to his soldiers. The Captain, though, chooses to remain in a sulk, ensconced in his apartments. He's playing cards, I'm told, with his Askari guard. Such strange behaviour! How can he remain unconcerned when some hundred of his men lie suffering below?
Such of the men that are able to stand unaided are encouraged to sit outside on the lawn, allowing more room for the more serious cases. The hotel staff have erected the brightly coloured awnings to offer some protection from the sun. The hotel concierge is quite beside himself, for most of his 'guests' now are coloured. He complains that his staff now have to thoroughly scrub down the whole hotel with carbolic soap. I can't stand the man!
Leutnant Spangenburg returns to his lodgings with Gerda. They are exhausted and fall asleep in each other's arms. Before he slumps into unconsciousness, Gerda elicits a promise that they will in future fight side by side. Fearless of the foe and contemptuous of the rigours of campaigning, he is forced to submit before the flickering eyelashes and soft skin of a beautiful woman.
George Carpentier takes Shona back to his house that evening. They too are tired after the day's activities. Shona is delighted to be at last lodged in her 'proper' place, in her husband's home.
Such remarkable things are happening here in the midst of war and suffering. Perhaps, George and Shona will eventually become the way of things out in Africa. Maybe, though, it's just an aberration in the midst of chaos. In generations to come it maybe that whole communities will consist of tan-coloured people living in a society that is a blend of the African and the European. It is for men like George Carpentier to say; he will not send his inter-racial issue to native villages to be raised apart from white society. Only then will we see any shifting of attitudes from that displayed by the concierge. And, indeed, the crackpot, intellectual bigotry of Dr. Otto.
Yes, I have learned many things out in Africa. We come as teachers to leave as students. Africa does that to you.
George Carpentier learnt Swahili from books written by German scholars who'd studied East Africa in the years following its inclusion in the Empire. He is grateful he lives in such a scientific and intellectual age. He is not pleased, however, that he lives at a time of the most savage war in human history. This is the true end of the Victorian era in world affairs. The diplomatic system that had deterred the great powers from slaughtering each other since the time of Napoleon has degenerated into this time of secret alliances and self-interest.
George is a thinker; an intellectual, humanist, scientist and a closet Fabian. For all his idealism he had found an Africa, not waiting to be brought to civilisation, but a civilisation waiting to be brought to the world. It had disturbed him how little his fellow Europeans understood what was under their very noses.
Although married to a rich daughter of an adventurous family, he did not really believe in the institution of marriage. It was, after all, merely a way the capitalist sorts out property issues and, at it's worst, another form of slavery. In Gerda he felt he'd had a spiritual union welding his missionary zeal to her thirst for adventure and foreign parts. They both, though, had changed. Africa does that.
Instead of adventure, she'd found isolation, hard work and drudgery. Rather than a culture thirsting for his guidance, he'd found a people steeped in their own mores and customs. And these customs had been perfectly adapted over many thousands of years to the land in which they lived.
Above all, he'd found a relaxed attitude to sex and marriage. He'd supposed girls were forced into marriages unwillingly, but this is not so. Girls can and do choose freely although formal arrangements are organised by the families concerned. They differ, however, in having the freedom to experiment well before their wedding day. By that time, the bride has often had a number of lovers. He'd also discovered a carefree interest among them in the European man's body.
One day his students invited him down to their water hole. There he'd found a dozen teenagers of both sexes laughing and cavorting in the water, totally naked. What's more, he discovered, these teens were quite happy to touch each other. He stood transfixed while a girl with large breasts invited the boys to suckle her like babies. There was more hilarity when one of the boys waved his large penis in her face. This sex play, though, did not seem to include intercourse. Apparently these African teenagers are encouraged to exercise some discipline in that regard.
Laughing, he was encouraged to shed his own clothes. He was then subjected to 'examination' by these delightful young teenagers as both girls and boys poked, prodded and eventually fondled him. The afternoon came to a conclusion when he discovered two girls servicing two boys with their mouths. They said they were having a contest. A third teenager then volunteered to perform the same act upon him. He discovered she was the same teenager with the large breasts he'd seen earlier. His voyage into what some might term depravity had begun when her mouth closed over his member.
Africa had awoken in him a taste for the young, black female body. As hard as he tried to resist, it was there waiting for him the next day, and the next.
George shows Shona around her new home. She stares in wide-eyed wonder at the fine European things and piles of books that are strewn liberally around. She promises George she will ensure the house is kept far tidier. Shona tells him that such a large house needs to be filled with many children.
Entering the bedroom, she smiles at the large canopied bed. To her it seems large enough for all her friends as well. George smiles as she bounces up and down delighting in the springs. She'd never slept on a sprung bed before. As she does so, George watches the movement of her breasts inside her loose top. He thinks he might have just enough energy to christen the bed properly.
A 55,000-man army requires a lot of organisation to move from place to place. A five-day march through the heat and dangers of the country to be ready to fight on the sixth is worthy of praise in itself. Throw into this equation the presence of several squadrons of armoured cars, much artillery and a 'train' consisting of motor lorries and horse-drawn wagons, then some may consider it a miracle they can arrive anywhere at all. Africa's heat and dust is anathema to the internal combustion engine. A good part of the Expeditionary Force's motor transport is now being hauled by bullocks. Most of the armoured cars will not drive into battle.
This unnecessary detour on the part of the British/Indian army, therefore, is a far larger inconvenience than it appears at first. Often a five-day journey for such an army requires at least that amount of time to prepare themselves for the actual march.
To an extent, the army of von Lettow overcame that problem by taking the least baggage with them on the move. Ammunition was concealed in secret depots; we lived off the land and abundant wildlife. We asked ourselves constantly, 'is this necessary to take?' if an insufficient answer was found, the item got left behind.
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