A finger to his lips, Fonthill waved his three companions back and then moved with them into the darkness of the jungle, away from the Königsberg.
‘Now what?’ whispered Jenkins.
‘Back to the boats and then we must take careful soundings of the channels leading from the mouth of the delta to the ship. Finding the damned thing is one thing. Getting near enough to destroy her with big guns, within the range of her own guns, is quite another.’
Fonthill pursed his lips. ‘And we must be particularly careful. They surely must have sent a boat by now to the gun position we destroyed and will have guessed that the place was attacked. So they will be looking for us. Everyone be on the alert.’
The quartet began retracing their steps, Mzingeli leading, following skilfully the marks of their passage through the undergrowth. If he can do that, thought Simon, then surely the Germans could also – if, that is, they had natives who could track as well as Mzingeli. Once again they skirted the gun emplacement, set about a quarter of a mile hidden in the shoreline north of the Königsberg. And once again they suffered from the insects, the humidity and the muscle-aching task of stepping on and over the curving mangrove roots. The animal residents of the jungle continued to mark their passage with a chorus of screeches and chatterings. Once, Fonthill almost put his foot on what he thought was a log, just under the surface of the water between two roots. The log quickly glided away into deeper water. He decided not to tell Jenkins.
It was with huge relief, then, that they eventually arrived back at the little inlet where they had left their canoes.
Except that they had gone.
They paused at the edge of the undergrowth and then drew back. Mzingeli pointed to the marks in the sandy shingle where the boats had been drawn back into the water. Surrounding them were the imprints of many boots. But these did not lead into the jungle, only back towards where the brown water lapped the shore.
‘They did not go into jungle to follow us,’ said Mzingeli.
‘Very sensible of them, I am sure,’ muttered Jenkins, scratching at a mosquito bite.
Fonthill stood, frowning. ‘Why should they take what appeared to be just two dug-out canoes, fishermen’s boats?’
‘What did we leave in them, bach sir?’ asked Jenkins.
‘Perhaps enough to incriminate us. Let me think: nets, of course, including our mosquito nets – would fishermen have them? Unlikely. Blankets, your sounding pole. Then there were our provisions. Not much to give us away there, just rice, dried meat, biscuits, tea and coffee. Luckily we have our rifles, binoculars, maps and canteens with us.’
He sighed. ‘Well, this shows that they are looking for the people who attacked their gun post. And we can’t make much progress – or take any soundings – without our boats. What’s more, we have nothing to eat.’
Mzingeli put a long finger to the side of his nose. ‘We don’t get off this island without our boats. We don’t swim to the next one with all these hippos and crocodiles about, I think.’
‘Ah.’ Jenkins nodded in fervent agreement. ‘You think right, there, Jelly. Very right, bach.’
Mzingeli turned to Mizango and spoke to him in Swahili. The other responded, slowly.
‘I ask,’ said the tracker, ‘if any of his people would fish these waters. He say, probably not this far south because water too dirty. But perhaps from the northern end of this island. If we can cut through jungle up to there we might attract one of boats from his village, if it go by.’
‘Aw, not another march through this bleedin’ jungle an’ sleepin’ rough, is it?’ Jenkins’s perspiring face was a picture of woe.
Simon nodded. ‘Our only hope, I would say.’ He fumbled in his knapsack and produced the map he had bought from the market in Mombasa, opening it on his knee. He showed Mzingeli where he had roughly marked the position of the Königsberg. ‘How far do you think we have come from there?’
‘I think, maybe one and half miles, Nkosi. We march slow in jungle.’
‘Hmm. From this map, this island of Kikunja looks to be about four miles from north to south.’ He looked up grinning. ‘That means we have a happy little walk ahead of us to reach the north coast. We had better get moving.’
He consulted his compass. ‘We follow the shoreline as best we can. It should be easier, anyway, than plodding through the heart of this blasted jungle. And we should be able to sleep more comfortably on the odd beaches we come across. Right, let’s start. I will lead this time, Mzingeli, with the compass, so give me the machete. But keep those keen eyes of yours looking out into the channel. The Germans will almost certainly be patrolling.’
So they began the incredibly wearying trudge again through the mangroves, carefully putting their feet on the roots and sometimes jumping over the dark water in between, with Fonthill hacking away with the machete when the undergrowth became too tangled ahead. Once again the birds and animals of the swamp sounded their disapproval, and monkeys sometimes hurled branches and sticks down at them. The forest seemed to teem with life. Fonthill noticed large ants seeming to walk stiffly on the surface of the water. He put his finger in and sucked it. Too salty to drink, alas – but surely a source of food.
He turned back to Mzingeli. ‘We can’t go hungry. Mizango is a fisherman. Even without fishing tackle, can he catch anything that might feed us?’
‘Oh yes, Nkosi. I already ask him. He say that cannot get shrimps without nets but further along there should be place where he maybe get crabs and perhaps lobster.’
‘How the hell are we going to cook ’em?’
‘We have matches and mangrove leaves will burn – when we find dry beach.’
Eventually, they did so and each man slumped down in gratitude onto the still damp sand, studded with young, soft, mangrove shoots standing up like small sentinels. Mzingeli and Mizango immediately rose, however, and began searching under the green undergrowth that edged the beach and arched over the water. Soon, there was a cry of triumph and Mizango held up a wriggling red-shelled crab, as big as his fist, which he threw onto the beach, where Jenkins killed it with a blow from his rifle butt. Then another followed and another until a small pile of the crustaceans had been deposited onto the sand.
Then the two black men began scavenging for dry wood.
‘They’ll never find any,’ mumbled Jenkins. ‘Every bloody thing around ’ere is drenched.’
But they did and soon a small fire was lit close to the undergrowth, which quickly absorbed the smoke that rose and died among the greenery. The men used rifle butts to crack the hot shells and soon they were hungrily devouring the soft meat inside.
‘I’ve ’ad better in Rhyl,’ observed Jenkins, sucking his fingers, ‘but not all that much better, I’d say. Well done, lads.’
Fonthill held up a hand. ‘Shush,’ he cried – and then, ‘Throw sand on the fire, quickly now. Back into the jungle.’
Then the others heard it: the throb of a marine engine. They had hardly time to douse the fire, scatter the crab shells, spread the ashes and crawl into the protection of the overhanging foliage when, nosing round the edge of the inlet, a motor launch appeared, the German eagle ensign draped over its stern. It was manned by four men, three of them armed with rifles, scanning the jungle, and a fourth at the tiller.
Suddenly, an order was given and the launch swept round in a great arc and headed for the shore.
‘Damn!’ swore Fonthill. ‘They’ve seen something. If they land, we will have to kill them. We cannot afford to take captives. Mzingeli, 352, put a cartridge up the spout of your rifles. Don’t fire until I do. Stay very quiet now.’
The launch crunched into the soft sand, an order was shouted in German and the three men jumped into the shallows, their rifles at the ready, the fourth man – obviously an officer or petty officer – remaining at the tiller, staring into the jungle.
‘Wait,’ breathed Fonthill.
The men cautiously walked up the beach and then one of them pointed to where some ashes from the fire still smouldered. He turned and shouted back to the officer.
‘Now,’ cried Simon. The three Mausers sounded as one. It was impossible to miss at that range and the three Germans crumpled and fell onto the sand. The officer immediately gunned the engine of the launch, swung the tiller around and the craft swung back out into the channel. Jenkins’s rifle sounded once more, however, and the helmsman slumped over, pushing the tiller back so that the craft swung round again and surged up onto the sand, where the engine coughed, spluttered and died.
‘Pull it up before it slips back into the water,’ shouted Fonthill, and Mzingeli, closely followed by Mizango, hauled up the craft so that it nestled snugly halfway up the beach.
Fonthill ran to the four inert Germans. He put his fingers to each throat in turn. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘Good shooting. Sad, but we had to do it. Mzingeli, wade out a little past the spur there – watch out for crocs – and make sure this boat was not one of a fleet. I doubt it, but you never know. Now, we must get rid of the bodies again. Into the jungle, this time, 352. Be careful of snakes but we must tuck the bodies out of sight, where they won’t float out again.’
The grisly work was soon done, with Mizango helping them.
Jenkins nodded to where the black man was hauling one of the dead Germans by the heels, almost nonchalantly into the undergrowth. ‘Poor old bugger must think we’re fightin’ this war all on our own, like. Must be used to dead bodies by now.’
Mzingeli reported that the channel seemed deserted and they all climbed into the launch, Simon returning for a moment to pick up the discarded German naval caps that had been left on the edge of the undergrowth and throwing them into the launch.
‘We have saved ourselves more tramping through that blasted jungle, anyway,’ he said. Then his brow furrowed. ‘I’ve just got to learn how to drive this damned thing. Now let’s see.’ He looked up at Mzingeli. ‘Can you and Mizango see if you can push the boat into deeper water, while I start the engine?’
The controls were set aft, by the tiller, and seemed simple but they were marked, of course, in German. He dredged his mind for the remnants of the language he remembered. ‘Hmm. “Start”, of course, must be start and this stick seems to be a simple gear lever, with “Rückwärts” meaning reverse.’ He looked up. ‘Did we get the Germans’ rifles?’
Jenkins held one of them up. ‘All aboard, Captain. Let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t much like this island. But don’t hit any crocs. I’ve grown quite fond of ’em.’
Mzingeli and Mizango pushed the craft back into the water, so that the propeller was well and truly submerged, Simon turned the start switch and the engine coughed into life. He thrust the gear lever back and the boat backed out into the channel.
‘Right,’ he called. ‘I intend to go slowly, up to the northern tip of this island. 352, use the boathook as a sounding pole …’
‘I mean lower it into the water, as you did with your pole in the canoe. Do it every fifty yards or so, so that we can measure the depth of the water. It means that we shall have to sail in mid channel, in plain view of both shores, but it can’t be helped. Right,’ he thrust the gear lever forward and opened up the throttle, ‘here we go.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘We’ve still got the German flag up at the back.’
‘Leave it. It will give us precious time if we pass a gun emplacement on the shore.’
‘What if we meet another German boat?’
‘Hope that this one goes faster than that one does. But put one of those sailors’ caps on and throw me the other. Mzingeli look in that little locker by the bow and see if there is something to eat and drink in there. Oh – and keep the rifles ready.’
Fonthill set the German officer’s cap at a jaunty angle and steered the boat towards mid channel. He knew that he – and the others – would look incongruous, dressed in what were left of their fishermen’s garments, now torn and hanging in shreds from the ravages of the thorns and sharp branches of the forest. He tore his off and gestured to Jenkins to do the same, hoping that any German observers would think that they were sunbathing. It was a forlorn hope but the best he could do. There was no way they could disguise the black skins of Mzingeli and Mizango.
Then Mzingeli threw back to him two dirty white naval tunics he found stored in the forward compartment. Holding the tiller with his knee he donned one and threw the other to Jenkins. Now, at a distance, they looked like a German boat, manned by a German crew, plus two natives. They had a fighting chance, at least, of reaching the mouth of the delta.
So the launch continued its serene voyage up the Kikunja Channel, Fonthill keeping the engine revs low so that the bow wave that curled back to lap the forest on either side of them was modest and the exhaust note muffled. Jenkins poled regularly, finding the channel deepening, and it was not unpleasant cruising in this way, for the passage made by their progress through the humid air gave them some relief from the heat of the sun at midday. Mzingeli had found a small package of German frankfurter sausages in the bow locker and these they shared.
For some time now, Mizango had been keenly looking ahead. Now, as the channel began to narrow he called out to Mzingeli.
‘He say,’ said the tracker, ‘that small island splits the channel ahead and makes it much narrower. German guns likely to be on either side.’
‘Damn!’ Fonthill frowned. ‘Thank him, Mzingeli. Put down your pole, 352. You and Mzingeli pick up your rifles but I will want Mzingeli and Mizango to duck down below the gunnels out of sight of the shore when I tell you. It is likely that we shall have to run the gauntlet under fire before we get to the open sea and it could get rather hot and noisy. If so, I shall just jam the throttle open and go like hell. If that happens, 352 and Mzingeli blast away at the shore positions with your rifles. Mizango stays low at all times. Translate please.’
An air of expectation now descended onto the launch and gone was the air of a gentle day out on the Thames near Bray. Fonthill settled the German cap more firmly on his head and opened the throttle slightly. He narrowed his eyes the better to see ahead.
Ah, yes. The island had now appeared – no, dammit – there were two, so decreasing strongly the distance between the channels. And which one to take? Both seemed incredibly narrow.
Then Mizango, still looking ahead, called back. At the same time he gestured to the starboard with his hand.
‘He say,’ shouted Mzingeli, ‘that right channel is narrower and less deep, so no ships expected to come that way. So he think no German guns on shore either side there. But he don’t know for sure.’
‘Thank him. Now get down. I am going through.’
Fonthill opened the throttle slightly so that the speed increased but only by a little. He wondered how quickly this old stately launch could go if she were really put to it. Well – they would soon find out!
He gently leant on the tiller, pushing it to port and the snub nose of the boat inched towards starboard, aiming for the centre of the channel, which was, by the look of it, only about one hundred yards across – perhaps one hundred and fifty. The foliage on the narrow southern tip of this island seemed undisturbed and, for a moment, he felt relieved. But only for a moment.
A voice in guttural German suddenly challenged him from the right. Then the snouts of two heavy German machine guns came into sight. Thank God, they seemed unmanned, except for one sailor, outstanding in his white garb against the green of the jungle, who stood between them. The man called again, waving this time, gesturing, it seemed, for them to pull into a little inlet by the guns.
Simon waved back, shook his head and pointed ahead. He shouted something in what he hoped sounded like German and gently opened the throttle.
Suddenly, the foliage opened and six sailors rushed through it to their guns, three to each. They settled down behind the triggers and wheeled them round to follow the passage of the launch.
‘Right,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Shoot at the buggers.’ At the same time, he knelt low and pushed forward the throttle. For a heart-stopping moment the launch did not respond, then, like an elderly racehorse spurred once more into life, she bounded forward, sending Simon falling back against the stern. At that moment Jenkins and Mzingeli opened fire.
There was no response. Scrambling to his knees, he saw that the German crews were feeding their long belt of cartridges into their guns. How disgraceful that they were not prepared already! Where was that German efficiency he had heard so much about? But Jenkins, his naval hat characteristically hanging from one ear, was shouting at him.
‘Can you stop this bloody thing from swinging all over the place? We’re shootin’ into the trees, look you.’
Suddenly, the German guns stuttered into life and Simon felt the breath of bullets winging over his head. Too high, thank God! The bow of the boat now rose as she pounded into the waters, once placid, now rippling with the effect of the tide coming in from the delta mouth. At the same time, the two rifles from the boat began replying, until they rounded a bend in the river and were safe and away.
‘Well done,’ shouted Simon. ‘Anyone hurt?’
Mizango’s eyes shone white in his black face but he was grinning. Jenkins shook his head. ‘But I shall be sick if this thing keeps bouncin’ about like this.’
Fonthill eased back the throttle. They were now out of the narrow channel and he could see ahead the sun glinting on the open sea. In the distance, out near the horizon, he could make out the indistinct shapes of two of the patrolling British warships. They were out!
‘Better pull down that German flag,’ he called out to Jenkins. ‘And see if you can find a bit of white rag or something like that we can hoist in its place. I don’t want to be sunk by British guns. Throw the German hats and tunics overboard. They’ve served their purpose.’
Within the half-hour, he was sitting in the stateroom of Admiral King-Hall’s flagship, HMS Hyacinth, reporting to the little man.
‘My God, you’ve done well, Fonthill,’ cried the admiral. ‘So how far into the delta do you think she is moored?’
‘About six or seven miles down the Kikunja Channel. But you won’t be able to get down there, going directly. There are two islands blocking the way.’
‘So what do we do?’
Simon took out his well-creased map. ‘The obvious passage is to sail down south here, down the Simba-Uranga Channel. Trouble is that the water level falls down to as little as five feet at low tide, so you would never be able to get near enough with cruisers carrying six-inch guns – which you will need to sink the Königsberg. There is one solution, though.’
A slow smile spread across King-Hall’s face. ‘I think I know what you are going to say, Fonthill.’
Simon’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes?’
‘Monitors. Am I right?’
‘Absolutely, sir. I am no sailor and certainly no gunnery expert, but as I understand it, these strange vessels are virtually gun platforms, drawing only about five feet but able to mount six-inch guns. No good, of course, in anything like a seaway but the waters of the channels are placid. You should be able to get near enough to fire at the Königsberg, even over an island. But …’ he paused. ‘I suppose it would take months to get them shipped out here from home.’
The admiral’s grin widened. ‘My dear Fonthill,’ he said, ‘you have something in common with our worthy First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr Winston Churchill.’
‘Oh really. What’s that?’
‘An inventive mind. Churchill has had the same thought. Two monitors – the Mersey and the Severn – were found at Malta. Churchill ordered them to be towed through the Suez Canal and down the African coast. They have just arrived and are being fitted out at Mafia.’
‘Ah, that’s splendid. But can they do the job, do you think?’
King-Hall’s monocle gleamed in the late sunlight. ‘Well we are painting ’em green to help them fit into the background. We’re stuffing ’em with empty kerosene tins below decks to maintain buoyancy if they get hit, and piling sandbags around their conning towers etc. They’re not small, of course. They measure 265 feet in length and they displace 1,260 tons, yet they only draw just five or six feet. Ideal for the job, really.’
‘So it seems. And their guns?
‘Each of ’em carries two six-inch guns, two 4.7 inch guns, four 3-pounders and six machine guns. They bristle with armaments. Enough anyway, I would think, to sink this bloody cruiser.’
Fonthill thought for a moment. ‘They are, of course, self-propelled?’
‘Oh quite. They may seem to be just bloody gun platforms, but they are ships.’
The frown on Simon’s brow deepened. ‘By the sound of it, it is not going to be easy to manoeuvre them in these tight channels. I think you will have to anchor them as near as you can get to the target and then fire blind, so to speak.’
‘Not quite. Now you have told us where the ship is moored, we can pinpoint its position by aeroplane. We have more efficient machines now and I hope they can spot for the guns, radioing back where the shells are falling and so on.’
‘Ah, that sounds excellent, sir. So …’ Fonthill returned to his map. ‘When you intend to attack, perhaps you could create a diversion somewhere else along the coast and then send the monitors in down this channel, the Simba-Uranga. But they will almost certainly be too ponderous to navigate round this island, behind which the Königsberg is hiding. I think it should be possible to anchor the gunships on the blind side of the island, so to speak, and to shell the cruiser over the top, with the air machines spotting for the guns.’
‘Exactly. But we need to know two things.’
‘Sir?’
‘We need to know the depth of the channel all the way down to the Königsberg, to make sure that the monitors can get down it. If they run aground halfway down, they will be at the mercy of the small torpedo-carrying boats that I understand the Germans have set up as part of their defences – like the craft that you came in on. As I understand it, you were not able to take soundings down this particular channel?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. What’s the second thing?’
‘We need an exact measurement of the rise and fall of the tides at the entrance to the delta. They could play a crucial role in deciding whether we can penetrate far enough down the channel.’
A silence fell on the little cabin. Fonthill’s features registered his dismay. ‘And you will want us to go back to do all this measuring …?’
‘Afraid so, old chap. The German shore defences – as you have experienced – are fairly extensive and sending in our small boats to do the job would be tantamount to offering them up as sacrificial lambs. A native fishing boat on the other hand …’ He left the sentence unfinished but shrugged his shoulders and offered both hands out beseechingly.
The silence returned. Then Fonthill nodded. ‘Well, my chaps won’t be exactly delighted to hear that we must run the gauntlet of crocodiles, hippos and trigger-happy Germans again, and neither am I, for that matter.’ Then he grinned. ‘But if it has to be done, I reckon we’re the very best Portuguese fishermen to do the job for miles around. How much time do we have?’
King-Hall removed his monocle and polished it vigorously with a snowy-white handkerchief while he thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we won’t have the monitors ready for at least a couple of weeks and we ought to give them a few days to practise gun-to-aircraft co-ordination. So … let’s say three weeks.’
‘Phew. That’s not long and there’s much to do.’
‘Sorry, but my ships that are poncing about off the mouth of the delta in case the Königsberg comes out to fight are urgently needed to chase U-boats in northern waters. We need to sink this damned German cruiser quickly so that we can free them. Do your best, Fonthill. I am sure you will.’
‘Very good, sir. We’re all filthy, though. Time for a bath first.’
The admiral stood. ‘Of course. You will need to hire some new dug-outs from wherever this native feller of yours has his village – my purser can provide funds in German currency. I suggest you do that first thing in the morning. My launch can take you there. Then get fishing again the next morning. Right?’
‘Right, sir.’
So it was that Fonthill and his three companions slipped down the side of the Hyacinth before dawn two days later and resumed their precarious positions in the two canoes, now in danger of shipping water as they rolled in the choppy seas off the delta. Dipping in their paddles they made for the opening of the large Simba-Uranga Channel, turning to port as they neared the headland to skirt what Mizango said was a German heavy-gun emplacement on the mainland to starboard.
The work upon which they were now embarked was repetitive, arduous and dangerous, demanding as it did that they took their soundings and measurements almost under the noses of clearly visible enemy gun positions onshore, while also pretending to fish – in shallow waters inshore where the shrimps were to be found.
Thinking through their brushes with the Germans, Fonthill realised with relief that none of the enemy had survived, of course, to warn of the presence of English spies posing as Portuguese fishermen. To that extent, then, they were reasonably safe, particularly as the waters at the opening to the delta were studded with native boats fishing there.
The problem lay, however, in plotting the depths of the channel further into the delta, where the locals rarely fished. Nevertheless, their luck held for two and a half weeks until, when their work was nearly done, they were taking soundings deep into the delta off the large island of Kikunja, on the opposite side to where the Königsberg was moored.
Jenkins had just put his sounding pole inboard and was making a note of the depth – a dangerously shallow 5.6 feet – when the distinctive noise of a German marine diesel came from behind a promontory that jutted out to their right.
‘Quick,’ shouted Fonthill, ‘throw out the nets.’
Mizango and Mzingeli had just time to hurl the shrimping net in a great arc when the boat appeared with, this time, a rating at the tiller, what appeared to be an officer in the bow and two sailors amidships bearing rifles.
‘If they hail us,’ whispered Simon, ‘answer in Swahili and repeat that we two are Portuguese.’
Inevitably, the hail came, from the officer in the bow, who gestured towards them with a pistol that he withdrew from a holster at his belt. As he did so, Jenkins slid his hand under the tarpaulin where the rifles were.
‘Be careful,’ hissed Fonthill, ‘they have us covered with their guns.’
The launch cut its motor and eased alongside the canoes. Once again the question came from the officer. Simon knew enough German to realise that they were being challenged and asked what they were doing fishing so deeply into the delta in German waters. He could not understand Mzingeli’s reply in Swahili, of course, and it was clear that neither could the German, for he indicated to them to pull up their net and paddle closer, alongside the launch.
‘If they search us and discover the Mausers we’re done for,’ whispered Simon. ‘So take plenty of time getting the nets up. I will help and deliberately tangle them. We need to play for time.’
While Jenkins, paddling deliberately badly, turned the lead canoe in a circle, the others pulled hard onto the great net, entangling it round the high bow post of the dug-out and causing the German officer to scream at them in frustration. Simon realised that he had to intervene.
‘I no speaka German, but speak some English,’ he called, with what he hoped might sound like a Portuguese accent. ‘You speaka English?’
‘Nein,’ shouted the officer and he waved his revolver urgently, indicating that Fonthill should climb into the launch.
‘What you wanta me to do?’ asked Simon plaintively, hunching his shoulders and spreading out his hands beseechingly. The frantic and clumsy net hauling of Mzingeli and Mizango was now beginning to rock both of the canoes and it was clear that Jenkins was certainly becoming alarmed, far more concerned about joining the crocodiles in the black water than being imprisoned by the German navy.
‘Oi, steady on lads,’ he shouted.
Fonthill did his best to cover up Jenkins’s involuntary lapse and immediately called out, ‘We fishermen. Portugesa fishermen. No fighters, please. Don’t shoota.’
But Jenkins’s cry had been enough to alert the officer and he lifted his revolver into the air and let off a round. Instantly, all net hauling ceased and an apprehensive silence descended onto the launch and two canoes. Simon’s mind raced. If he created some sort of diversion, would it enable Jenkins to withdraw one of the Mausers from under the tarpaulin and shoot … what? All three of the Germans, who now had all of their guns pointing ominously at the canoes? Ridiculous! The Germans would bring him down before he could work the bolt of his rifle to reload the magazine. Simon did, however, have his Webley revolver, containing six cartridges, tucked under a cloth by the stern of the canoe.
He waved acknowledgment to the officer. Turning his back on him and picking up the cloth, he ostentatiously wiped his hands with it and then his brow, while slipping the revolver into the waistband of his trousers underneath his shirt. ‘I come on boarda,’ he shouted and waving to Jenkins to follow him, he left the rocking canoe and clambered into the launch.
Jenkins, not at all averse to leaving the fragile dug-out, followed him and quietly moved towards the nearest sailor, standing there with his hand just above the knife at his belt. From the corner of his eye, Simon noticed that Mzingeli had managed to throw the end of the fishing net around the propeller beneath the launch’s stern.
The German officer waved to Mzingeli and Mizango to climb aboard also and shouted an order to the rating standing at the tiller behind the engine housing. The man put down his rifle and bent down and pushed a switch to start the motor. It coughed into action, then immediately whirred to a stop as the wings of the propeller wound themselves around the net.
The officer cursed and joined the helmsman leaning over the stern to examine what had caused the motor to cut. Simon half-turned, pulled out the Webley, dropped on one knee and fired at the officer, wounding him in the shoulder and causing him to drop his revolver. At the same time, Jenkins struck up the rifle of the sailor standing next to him and pushed him into his mate, sending them both reeling.
‘Drop your guns,’ shouted Fonthill. One did so but the other fired a bullet, which flew over the officer’s head as the latter knelt, gasping and holding his wounded shoulder. The rating received Jenkins’s knife in his ribs for his courage and he too collapsed onto the deck of the launch.
‘Mzingeli,’ ordered Simon. ‘Get the rifles, quickly.’
The tracker sprang around the deck, barefooted and as lithely as any seaman before the mast, gathering the weapons.
‘Good.’ Still holding the revolver, Fonthill tore off his shirt and threw it to Jenkins. He nodded to the wounded seaman. ‘Pull out your knife and tear up my shirt to make a dressing and bandage. We mustn’t let him bleed to death. I will do what I can to help the officer.’
He waved his revolver at the helmsman and gestured to him to remove his shirt. Wide-eyed, the man did so. Simon mimed to him to tear the shirt similarly into strips and then knelt down to remove the bloodstained jacket from the officer, who lay moaning on the deck.
Inspecting the wound, Fonthill nodded. ‘You have been very lucky, Fritz,’ he said. ‘My bullet has gone clean through under the bones and out the other side. Throw me your knife, 352.’
The knife clattered along the deck and Simon used it to cut away the shirt, double a part of it into two pads and apply them to the wound at the front and back. He gestured to the helmsman to use one of his shirt’s strips to bind the dressing to the chest. Then he stood, blowing out his cheeks at the effort and speed of it all.
‘Mzingeli,’ he said. ‘Stack the rifles. You did well to disable the motor but we’re going to need it pretty damn quick to get out of here. The sound of shots may attract more boats or crewmen from the Königsberg. Please ask Mizango to drop into the water to untangle the net from the prop and you keep watch over him with a rifle to make sure the crocs don’t fancy his legs. We’ve got to move quickly.’
Simon moved to where a little companionway led into a small cabin. ‘Now,’ he waved his revolver to the seaman who had dropped his rifle, ‘you take your mate down below and give him water.’ He pointed to the wounded man, whom Jenkins was now helping to his feet, and mimed giving him a drink.
The unwounded man nodded and, putting his hand around the waist of the wounded man, helped to go below.
Jenkins nodded. ‘It was only a flesh wound, see,’ he said. ‘I must be losin’ me nerve ’cos I didn’t want to stick ’im proper, like. Must be gettin’ soft in me old age.’
‘Good. Take over from Mzingeli watching for crocs and get him to get into the canoes and salvage our maps and what supplies we’ve got left. I want to get out of here as soon as we can. We can leave the dug-outs behind.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
A cry from the water from a triumphant Mizango indicated that the propeller had been freed and he was hauled aboard. Fonthill indicated to the helmsman to help the wounded officer to his feet and to take him into the little cabin. Once they were below and had joined the other two, Simon locked the cabin door and turned back to the motor. To his relief the engine kicked into life immediately. Slipping the gear into reverse, Simon swung round in a welter of white wake out into the channel and headed due north, revving the motor as high as he dared to elude whatever pursuit might be mounted from the cruiser or the shore.
‘352,’ shouted Fonthill above the roar, ‘you and Mzingeli man starboard and port with the rifles, ready to fire back if we are fired upon from the shore.’
‘Er … starboard and what?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, each take a side and watch out for movement in the jungle. Ask Mzingeli to tell Mizango to watch ahead from the bow – the front of the boat – to warn of any trouble coming up. I can’t see too clearly here from the stern.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’
The launch was considerably faster and seemed better equipped than the first they had captured; Fonthill estimated that it was probably the captain’s own boat and chuckled at the thought of robbing him of it. But his delight was short-lived, for a cry from the bow alerted him to possible danger.
Handing the tiller to Jenkins and cutting the motor to just allow the boat to make headway, he walked ahead to see where Mizango was pointing. Shading his eyes from the sun, he saw that a small motor craft, carrying the German flag at its stern, had pulled alongside an Arab dhow in mid channel. The dhow had dropped its anchor and its skipper appeared to be in earnest conversation with a man in German uniform on its deck.
‘Damn!’ Fonthill’s mind raced. The smaller of the two craft was a speedboat and could easily overtake the launch. Should they sail by with an airy wave or stop and deprive the Germans of their catch, whatever it was? Yes, better the latter. They outnumbered the crew of the little boat, anyway, which seemed to be manned by only two men. A high-speed patrol boat, obviously.
Simon moved back to Jenkins at the tiller. ‘You and Mzingeli get your rifles,’ he said, ‘and be prepared to jump aboard that little boat and the Arab vessel at its side. Disarm the two Germans and bring ’em back here and put them down below with the others. Move quickly, now. I’m going alongside.’
He increased speed again and then dropped the revs so that the engine noise fell away and let the momentum of the boat approach the two boats from the rear and gently pull alongside the patrol boat. Both of the Germans remained looking ahead but the officer had been joined on board the deck of the dhow by a slim Arab who was now addressing the Germans.
With a gentle bump the launch slipped alongside the speedboat and Mzingeli leapt aboard, pushed the helmsman to one side and climbed on board the dhow, thrusting his rifle into the side of the German officer, indicating that he should drop his revolver. The man did so, his face a picture of surprise and consternation.
‘Well done, lads,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘352, you get on board the Arab ship and take over watching the Germans. Mzingeli, come back here and tie us up to the speedboat. I don’t want to drift away.’
Within minutes, the three boats were lashed side by side and Simon had joined a grinning Jenkins on board the dhow. ‘What the hell are you laughing at?’ he demanded of the Welshman.
Jenkins nodded mutely towards the slim Arab.
‘Hello, Simon,’ said Alice. She turned towards the captain of the dhow, standing at her side, his face matching the astonishment on that of the German officer. ‘Mustapha,’ she said, ‘I would like to introduce you to Simon Fonthill, my husband.’ She smiled and sighed at Fonthill. ‘He’s always rescuing me. It’s getting very embarrassing and rather boring.’