Two Years’ Captivity In German East Africa

This little book relates my experiences as a prisoner of war in German East Africa.

In the writing of it and the casting into book form I have received invaluable assistance from one conversant with literary methods, but the substance remains a plain, unelaborated narrative of facts.

I have tried to avoid dwelling unduly on the privations, discomforts and insults endured, and considerations of space forbid more than a passing reference to the wretched state of the native population. But I do not hesitate to state my conviction that if East Africa ever again comes under German rule it will be a lamentable disaster for the native races. German rule in Africa is “the rule of the kiboko.” Kiboko is a word probably unknown to the majority of Englishmen ... it is but too well known to every native ... it means “the lash.”

In the Officers’ Mess at Portsmouth—no less than in every Chancellerie in Europe—the one topic of discussion in the last days of July, 1914, was the possibility of War .

Most of us were of the opinion that Germany was only trying to see how far she dared go, and attempting to coerce Russia by a gigantic bluff. The great test mobilisation of our Navy had just been brought to a successful conclusion, and we were all feeling elated at the smoothness with which it had been accomplished. Everything had gone like clockwork. Germany would never—so we argued—dare to provoke a European conflict while we were in such an obvious state of preparedness. Although some of us were demobilised and back at our old posts, the greater part of the Fleet was still in full complement and on a war footing. Nevertheless, deep hidden in every human heart there is a secret recognition of the fact which Victor Hugo expressed in the epigrammatic words: “ Rien n’est plus imminent que l’impossible, et ce qu’il faut [2] toujours prévoir ... c’est l’imprévu. ” And so each special edition of the newspapers was eagerly scanned, amid anxious speculation on what the future might hold.

When, in accordance with orders received, I joined H.M.S. Goliath , which was then lying at Devonport, I found much bustle and activity on board. All the R.N.R. men who had returned to their homes but a few days before were rapidly rejoining, and had to be told off into watches and their duties allotted. Provisions were being got in, and all superfluous gear dumped into lighters alongside....

Then dawned the historic day when Britain declared War . Jubilant now in the knowledge that we had indeed accepted the challenge and flung down the gage, all energies were redoubled—and more than redoubled. The men toiled with heart and soul and needed no driving. Working parties invaded the wardroom and cabins, tearing down the woodwork, partitions and panelling, and removing all but absolutely necessary furniture. Chests of drawers vanished, and thereafter we were obliged to rummage in our tin cases when we needed a clean collar or fresh tie. Those who had all their uniform on board packed up and sent ashore their full-dress, plain clothes and valuables.... By the end of the day the dockside looked as though a household removal was in progress!

In the dockyard itself all work went forward at higher speed and with greater zest. Great [3] arc-lights blazed and spluttered throughout the night, and from every quarter came the ringing clang, clang, clang of iron on iron.

Day and night gangs of men were engaged in effecting alterations and repairs to ships already in commission, while others were straining every nerve to complete those still under construction. In a very few days we were ready for sea with all alterations completed, and all ammunition and stores on board.

Several very youthful cadets from Dartmouth College had been appointed to our ship, much to the distraction of the Commander, for we had only twelve hours’ notice of their advent, and the gun-room was not ready for them—indeed, it was full of stores. Finally, one evening we dropped down the Hamoaze, received in passing a cheer from a little crowd on Tor Point, and anchored for the night just within the breakwater.

Next morning at daybreak we steamed out and joined the Channel Patrol. Although we did not know it at the time, on one of the nights when we were steaming to and fro on our beat—all lights out and the guns’ crews sleeping at their posts—the First Expeditionary Force was being quietly shipped across to France.

The unwonted excitement of those first few days rendered us tense and expectant; but nothing of importance took place. It was a time of waiting and watching:—of the holding up and boarding of steamers and sea-craft of all descriptions which [4] we either passed on their way or escorted into port for a more searching examination.

Then, one evening, there came through a coded message on receipt of which the captain altered course, and we proceeded westward at increased speed. Naturally, in the wardroom there was much speculation as to our destination. It is possible that our Intelligence Officer, the Captain of Marines, knew what was up, but he preserved a Sphinx-like and most tantalising silence. That same night we passed the Lizard Light and headed south.

A day or two later, as we were steaming down within sight of the Portuguese coast, we passed a tug flying the Dutch flag. She had two lighters full of coal in tow, and it is quite probable that they were destined for one of the German cruisers at that time still at large, but since we had no power to board and examine her we were obliged to pass on.

In due course we arrived in the harbour at Gibraltar, and proceeded to coal. It soon, however, appeared that Gib. was not our goal. Evidently we were bound further east, for officers were advised to provide themselves with white clothing and sun-helmets. Luckily I had brought mine with me—I say luckily with feeling, for those who were now required to provide themselves with these articles of apparel found there was but time to get “ready-mades,” which fitted only where they touched, and further, the varied assortment of head-gear which made its appearance would have been the joy of a caricaturist!

It was a real treat to get down to the sunny [5] Mediterranean, for in the Channel the weather had been getting very cold and dreary, and none of us had cared to spend more time on deck than was absolutely necessary. Now, however, it was a pleasure to take a stroll after dinner and watch the rocky African coast sliding by in the distance. In the afternoons deck-hockey provided exercise for limbs and lungs. Each player was armed with a stick of sorts, its shape immaterial, but the larger the knob on the end the better—and all save the goal-keeper seemed to be playing “forward.” What matter if it was only occasionally that one got a glimpse of the ball—a square chunk of wood—we were all quite satisfied to smack away at a spot in the centre of a struggling crowd where the ball ought to be, and if anyone got a whack across the shins there was no use in howling; the only thing was to go on smiting as hard as possible in the hope of returning the blow with interest. It may be imagined how such a scrimmage appealed to the youngsters; and even the captain, despite a game leg protected by a hockey-pad, was ever in the thickest of the fray.

As we neared Port Said we wondered if we should have the luck to encounter the Goeben .... True, we were not over -anxious for the meeting, for although the old ship would have done her best she could not hope to meet the German on equal terms. However, we moored without incident, just off the offices of the Canal Company ... a curious medley of European and Arab architecture. Here we again coaled, the work being done by Arabs in [6] an irritatingly piecemeal manner. The method consisted in filling small baskets with coal and passing them from man to man until they were finally emptied into the bunkers, and as the natives leisurely performed this task they kept up a monotonous sing-song chant.

That well-known Port Said character “Jim Irish” came aboard.... I will not undertake to state his nationality, but he probably has traces of Arab and Egyptian blood combined with a strong strain of Somali. He turned up smiling in a frock-coat, fancy waistcoat and flaming tie, a red fez on his head, and many cheap rings on his fingers. He will sell you Turkish Delight, cigarettes, or picture-postcards of questionable taste, and tout for orders for anything and everything. Then he will draw you aside and suggest with an insinuating leer: “You like see pictures? You want see Port Said? You come with me ... I show you.”

However, I had been in Port Said before, and was not attracted by the prospect held out, but as a ship is a very uncomfortable place when coaling is going on, I took the opportunity to go ashore with another officer, though not with “Jim Irish,” and having first lunched at the Great Eastern Hotel, we did a little shopping. Port Said is by no means a pleasure resort; the town extends some little way along the Mediterranean coast, but the beach is unattractive, the roads are hot and dusty, and most of the places of refreshment look singularly uninviting.

That evening we weighed anchor and steamed down the canal. The moon was shining brightly, throwing the banks into sharp black and white of light and shadow. It is curious to note that while the western bank is fringed with vegetation, on the opposite side there is only bare desolation of billowing sand stretching away and away into the far distance. The reason for this difference is to be found in the fresh-water canal which, running for some distance parallel to the ship canal, nourishes a certain amount of vegetation on the western side.

I turned in early and was asleep before we entered the Bitter Lakes—a stretch of brackish water through which a channel is kept dredged—and when I awoke the next morning we had completed the passage of the canal and were off Suez.

On the following day the heat began to get oppressive, and it only increased in intensity as our voyage continued. Even the nights were hot and close, and most of us brought our bedding on deck in the hope of benefiting by any breeze that might spring up. But the only breeze proved to be a following one, which was worse than none at all, since it was just sufficient to nullify that produced by our ship’s passage through the water. Trying as it was for those on deck, it was infinitely worse for the stokers and engine-room ratings. In the boiler-room the temperature steadily mounted, nor did the air pumped into the forced draft improve matters, for it was no cooler—in fact, it resembled the blast from a furnace. Finally, so [8] many were overcome by the heat that the ship had to be turned at intervals and steamed against the breeze in order to blow out the stokeholds and engine-rooms with cooler air.

While we were traversing the Red Sea a rumour reached us that the Königsberg , or some other German ship, had recently coaled at Jeddah, so it was decided to visit the place and investigate. When we arrived off the little harbour an R.N.R. lieutenant and the Subaltern of Marines were sent ashore in the steamboat to make enquiries. The Turkish officials received them with superficial politeness, but declared that no German ship had visited the port for months.

In due course we reached Aden, where we promptly started coaling again. There was just time for a scamper round. The Club was shady, cool and inviting, but I wished to see and explore the, to me, new ground, so having found a kindred spirit, I hired a carriage and we drove out to the Tanks—the stock sight of the place, and possibly the only one. It was a blazing hot day, the road was thick with dust, and from rocks and sand the sunlight reflected back in a blinding glare, so that a ride in a curtained and canopied “gharri” provided a certain sense of comfort and coolness not otherwise obtainable.

The Tanks are said to be very old; for the moment I forget to whom is given the credit of having designed and executed them, but they are merely large basins or reservoirs hewn at suitable places out of the solid stone just where the rock-faces [9] converge, and they form a catchment for the periodical rainfall. A considerable amount of engineering ingenuity is displayed in their construction and in the system of outflow from one to the other. Aden is situated in an arid tract of country, and formerly existence here was only rendered possible by dint of collecting and conserving the rains which provided the only fresh water obtainable. Now, however, a plant for the distillation of sea-water is installed, and the old system is no longer used—at least by Europeans.

There is a small Arab town in the rocky gorge beyond which the Tanks lie, and we were greatly entertained by a small Arab boy who volunteered to show us the sights. His knowledge of English seemed limited to the following doggerel, which he repeated all in one breath with sing-song and monotonous regularity: “No father no mother no sister no brother give backsheesh.” I was surprised, however, to find that his colloquial knowledge of French was much more extensive; it transpired that he had been taught in a French Mission.

We sailed from Aden at daybreak the next morning, and were met by a pleasant breeze which freshened us all up considerably.

On our way out we had conceived the idea of publishing a magazine dealing with the small events and incidents of ship-life. It was hoped that the writing of articles and items of news, and the subsequent criticism of the same, would tend to relieve the monotony of the voyage, for once we [10] were out of the Mediterranean no exciting incidents of any magnitude were anticipated; but still we had to be in a constant state of preparedness, and this, coupled with the fact that day succeeded day without the slightest adventure, gave rise to a feeling of strain which showed itself in more or less thinly disguised irritability.

As one of the more leisured members of the Mess, I was appointed to the post of editor, which also included those of printer and publisher! The initial copy was difficult to obtain, but after the issue of the first number contributions poured in. And now the chief difficulty lay in devising the best and quickest method of turning out copies. As several of our contributors revealed a greater aptitude with pencil than with pen, an art editor was added to the staff, together with an expert typist and a printer. The latter’s task was to draw off copies from the duplicator—none too easy a job when dealing with a ten-page magazine, printed with an ink liable to run badly when wet, and in a temperature above the nineties! All the same, we spent some very pleasant times in the preparation of the little journal, the while the old ship rolled smoothly on her way across the Indian Ocean.

In the very small hours of an October morning we arrived at Bombay, and an R.N.R. lieutenant and myself obtained permission to go in with the early boat to do some shopping. We were dressed at 4 a.m., and it was still quite dark and appreciably chilly when the boat landed us at the new [11] Alexandra Dock. Out of the gloom the voice of a sentry rang out in sharp challenge as we drew alongside, but we soon satisfied him that even at such an hour our business was lawful.

Our first objective was the Crawford market, and thither we piloted the stewards in order that they might purchase fresh meat and vegetables for the ship. It was a curious experience to be groping about the great Indian city in the half-dawn. Now and then we stumbled over recumbent figures, who had apparently spent the night on the side-walk wrapped only in their thin cotton clothing, with a fold of the same pulled over their heads. The market is a covered building of European design, and even at this early hour the greater part of the day’s business was already over, and the salesmen were idling about their half-depleted stalls, while the small retailers as well as various servants of still-sleeping sahibs were carrying away their purchases.

Having assured ourselves that the stewards (who did not know Bombay) would be able to carry on, Pack and I turned our steps towards the Taj Mahal, the great hotel on the Bund. Here we were received with some surprise, as it is not usual for English sahibs to be abroad so early. However, when after a wash and a shave we were ready for breakfast, we managed to procure a “chota hazri” of tea and bananas which we ate on the balcony, the while we watched the changing effects of sunrise in the bay.

Many soldiers in uniform were present, having [12] breakfast with their wives, who had accompanied them down from up-country stations. I felt very sorry for all these poor ladies, who could not conceal the anxiety they felt at the imminent parting with their men, who were so soon to proceed to France to fight.

Later, we started on our shopping. I, as tobacco-caterer for the Mess, laid in a supply of Indian cigars, and then purchased several bottles of light beer—a drink highly appreciated on board a man-of-war in the tropics. Pack had been deputed to obtain, among other things, some musical instruments, it being the Commander’s intention to organise a band on board. Fortunately we found that the Army and Navy Co-operative Stores were selling off their stock, so he managed to get a number of stringed instruments at a great reduction.

We further invested in a new duplicator for the Gazette , as we had been having a lot of trouble with the old one.

Our gharri must have presented a curious spectacle, for it was piled high with packages large and small, and crowded with zithers, guitars and banjos! The shopping occupied the whole morning, and it was not until the afternoon that we drove down to the quay and transferred our purchases to the boat.

About six on the same evening we weighed anchor and proceeded out to sea. It now transpired that our present duty was to assist in the convoying of a number of transports carrying [13] troops. There were about eighty of them in all—vessels great and small, covering a vast expanse of water, and shepherded by warships on either flank. A most impressive sight. Later, when they were all lit up—for at this time there was no submarine menace in these seas—the scene took on the semblance of an immense nocturnal water-fête. In view of the fact that we were at war this was extremely unorthodox, and signals made to the troopships requesting them to moderate their illumination did not meet with very conspicuous obedience. Of course, the warships were steaming with all lights out, but it seemed difficult to persuade the transports of the necessity for following their example; apparently they did not realise the enormity of their crime.

A few days later we separated from the main fleet, and, convoying about a dozen of the transports, steamed to the southward. The small force we were now guarding was that which sustained such a grievous reverse at Tanga in the early days of November, 1914.

Just before arriving at Mombasa we “crossed the line,” and the event was celebrated with all due rites. One evening, Neptune’s bears came aboard and warned the captain that on the following day Father Neptune himself would board the ship, and would expect to find all the novices lined up for initiation. We actually crossed the Equator about 8.30 next morning, but, in order not to interfere with the morning routine, Neptune very thoughtfully [14] postponed his visit until 1 p.m. At that hour one of our lieutenants, disguised in flowing tow beard and wig, equipped with trident and crown, and arrayed in coloured bunting, made his appearance on the forecastle, attended by a numerous retinue of “old salts.” To be strictly in accordance with custom, Neptune should come aboard over the bows, but since in our modern battleships this is somewhat difficult, it is considered a sufficient concession to tradition if he appears on the forecastle through a hatchway.

Preceded by his bandsmen all blowing vigorously on conch-shells, and attended by his scribe, soap-bearer, latherer, and other important functionaries, the Sea King made a tour of the ship; and after he had been received by the captain with a little speech of welcome, took up his stand on the forecastle.

Here a large sail-bath had been rigged up, and the ceremony of initiation began. All the novices had taken the precaution of arraying themselves in either old trousers and vests or simply in bathing-suits. Each in turn was brought before Neptune, and if he admitted that he had never before “crossed the line,” he was seized and plumped down on a stool with his back to the bath. Then his face was well lathered with a whitewash brush, and the barber scraped his cheeks with a huge wooden razor, after which the stool was tilted suddenly backwards, and the victim shot head-first into the water. Here several of Neptune’s bears pounced upon him and ducked him until he was [15] well out of breath, and there his ordeal ended. If any novice ventured to plead that he was an initiate and his veracity was in doubt, the scribe made a great show of referring to the records, and then ordered him peremptorily to be lathered and shaved. Needless to say, his attempt at deception was rewarded by an extra share of soap, while in addition a huge bread-pill was forced into his mouth.

There were several novices to be initiated, and the whole show went with a swing. Only one regrettable incident occurred—this was when the scribe who had borrowed the chaplain’s best black coat was suddenly and without warning pushed by some wag into the bath.

At the time this joke caused roars of laughter, but afterwards we had to condole with the Padre on the mournful condition of his best blacks. Luckily, however, after a good rinsing in fresh water and careful drying, the suit, though slightly shrunk, was still wearable.

Three days later we arrived off Mombasa, and here another warship took over our convoy of transports and escorted them to their destination, while we proceeded into Kilindini Harbour to effect some boiler repairs.

Kilindini is the deep-water harbour for Mombasa (the old harbour is only able to accommodate vessels of shallow draught), and its entrance is narrow, and invisible on approach from the sea. At first it seemed as though our ship was heading straight for the beach, but presently she turned sharply to port away from the town, and a lovely stretch of water opened out. Up this we glided until the open sea was hidden by a bend of the river, and finally we anchored in the stream just above Kilindini wharf.

At first it seemed strange, after being for so long accustomed to the sound of salt waves dashing against the ship’s side, to be lying quietly at anchor in a stream, where during the ebb the water was almost fresh, and to be surrounded by the green of inland vegetation which grew right down to the edge of the shore.... Here for many days the old ship lay at rest, while the busy engineers cleaned and scraped the boilers, which were caked with the [17] accumulated deposit from the thousands of gallons of water which had circulated through them on the voyage out.

We were completely hidden from the sea, but we took full measures of defence and offence in the event of a hostile vessel steaming up and thinking to bombard at her leisure the apparently unprotected town of Mombasa. The gunnery lieutenant was very busy “squaring off” on a large map the area in which our guns could be effective; and another lieutenant and two “snotties” were ordered to camp out near the old lighthouse, whence they could command all the sea-approaches.

Their business was to signal to the ship should a hostile vessel appear, and to indicate her position when she came within range.

These young officers vastly enjoyed the novelty of camping out. One day I went up to have tea with them, and found them just bubbling over with excitement. They exhibited their camp-equipment with great pride, and even conducted me to their open-air kitchen, which was presided over by a grinning Swahili. This boy treated everything as a huge joke, and took special delight in being able to report a sail on the horizon—were it only a dhow. It seemed to afford him immense amusement to see the officer on duty run up the steps of the old tower to scrutinise the vessel through his telescope. Fortunately, too, it was the dry season, so the weather was just right for camping out.

On landing at Kilindini the first question to be decided is whether to walk into Mombasa or to drive. Since it is generally very hot, and there is a [18] steep hill to be climbed from the wharf, the decision as a rule is in favour of driving in a gharri. This is really a trolley, provided with curtains and a sun-canopy, and having two seats, which at a pinch will accommodate six persons. The motive-power is provided by two natives, who push up the hills and along the level, but at every down gradient hop on the tail-board and so get a rest. On a descent these vehicles develop quite a respectable pace, and they all have strong brakes—a necessary precaution in view of the steepness of the hill running down to Kilindini.

A good road, lined for the greater part of its length by fine shady mango-trees, leads right up to the entrance to the English Club.

Facilities for shopping in Mombasa are not great; true, there are two or three large stores which stock a little of everything, but are usually “out of” the particular article required. And in addition to these there are several Indian shops chiefly devoted to the sale of cheap (and not rarely spurious) Japanese and Indian curios.

The Arab quarter of the town is interesting, although it cannot compare with Zanzibar, and the houses are built right on the narrow streets, presenting as a rule nothing but a blank whitewashed wall with a door opening on an inner court. These doors are always massive, and occasionally finely carved, and studded with huge nails of brass or iron bosses. The native quarter is merely a collection of mud-huts with low doorways, and window spaces large and open to the street if the tenant [19] has wares to display, but otherwise small and dark.

Here, too, the roads have a habit of dwindling away, until at length the visitor finds himself among a cluster of huts which seem—as, indeed, they are—set down without any regard for symmetry or the preservation of a highway.

The dresses of the Swahili are picturesque and graceful. The men wear a long-sleeved robe called a “kanzu,” which reaches to the ankles, and is made of cotton—sometimes coloured—but more usually there is beneath this one or more cotton vests of Manchester or Indian make, and possibly drawers of similar material. A red fez without a tassel is the most popular head-dress. The women’s apparel is even more simple, for it consists merely of a brightly-coloured and figured cotton cloth wound round the body below the armpits, while a second is draped shawl-wise over head and arms. Like the majority of natives, the women hold themselves magnificently, a fact probably due to their carrying on their heads everything which is capable of being so carried. A European umbrella of cheap Indian manufacture is a highly precious possession, and it looks inexpressibly quaint to see this when not in use—balanced on the head!

We were anxious to obtain some genuine African curios, but found this was difficult, for although Oriental shops were well stocked with wares, most of these were cheap and showy, and of no real worth. My most-prized souvenir of Mombasa is a walking-stick made from a strip of [20] dried rhinoceros-hide so polished with oil that it resembles clouded amber.

The river, dividing here into two arms, makes of Mombasa an island. One afternoon I landed on the mainland, where, opposite Kilindini wharf, is an old naval canteen, relic of the days when we kept a squadron in these waters for the suppression of the slave-trade of which Zanzibar was a centre. There still exists a cleared space, once the recreation-ground, on which, though it was largely overgrown, it was yet possible for our sailors to enjoy an impromptu game of football.

The cocoanuts and mangoes were not yet ripe; indeed, the latter were quite hard and green; nevertheless, despite my warnings, one or two seamen tackled them with apparent relish, and, oddly enough, they seemed subsequently to suffer from no ill effects!

After watching the football for a while I wandered down a little path and came upon a cluster of native huts, where I found some more of our bluejackets ingratiating themselves with the small brown children, and charming the smiling mothers by their admiration of the naked babies—fat brown little beings with a string of bright beads for their only clothing. A grey-headed old man was offering some oranges for sale, but would not accept English pence, and I was able to come to the rescue with a few small local coins.

After spending about three weeks in Kilindini we were again ready for sea, and one day a signal [21] arrived which caused no little excitement. Messengers were hurriedly sent ashore to demand the immediate return of our washing—whether clean or no—and the officers out at the lighthouse were ordered to strike camp and rejoin the ship without delay. The following morning, at 10 a.m., we steamed out and cruised about at sea just out of sight of land.

Daybreak of Saturday, November 28, 1914, found us off Dar-es-Salaam, the capital of what was then German East Africa. It lies about twenty miles south of Zanzibar. We anchored some three miles outside the harbour, but our consorts—a cruiser, an armed auxiliary vessel, and the Helmuth —a tug previously captured from the Germans—went much closer in.

The outer anchorage at Dar-es-Salaam is a broad, open bay studded with coral reefs, and we lay not far from the small lighthouse situated at the extremity of a rocky point running out from the southern end of the bay. The distant shore was veiled in the mists of early morning, but with the aid of glasses we could make out the sweep of white pebbly beach and the waving tops of palms. Here and there houses peeped out among the trees, the most prominent being the Governor’s residence; and farther north, right on the sea-front, appeared the new European hospital—a large red-brick building. Two white flags were flying from a signal-station at the entrance to the inner harbour, but this harbour itself could not be seen from the ship.

In response to signal, the Governor came out in [23] a small motor-boat and boarded the cruiser—the senior ship. There he was interviewed by the captain, who told him that it was our intention to send boats in to examine the ships in the port and to deal with them as we saw fit, with a view to preventing them from putting to sea. The reason for this was that those vessels were suspected of supplying food, etc., to the crew of the Königsberg —that Teutonic commerce raider which a short time before had been bottled up in the Rufigi River. He also stated that in the event of any hostility being shown to our men in the execution of their duty we should bombard the town.

I believe that the Governor agreed to these proposals, but said that he could not answer for the attitude of the military. He was then returned under safe conduct to the shore, and shortly afterwards a German military officer came out and stated that our boats would not be molested.

All these preliminary negotiations took some time, and it was not until about 11 a.m. that our picket-boat and the tug started on their mission. The former had the misfortune to collide with a floating dock which the Huns had sunk right in the narrow channel which formed the entrance to the harbour, and sustained such damage to her rudder as to be out of control, so she had to be towed back to the ship and the steam-pinnace was got out to take her place.

I was ordered to go in and board and examine the S.S. Tabora . This was a passenger-steamer of the Deutsch Ostafrika Line, and claimed by the [24] Germans to be a hospital ship; she had not, however, been registered as such at the beginning of the war. It was intended, should her bona fides seem doubtful, to disable her engines. In company with the torpedo lieutenant I embarked in the pinnace, and left the ship about midday.

The entrance to the inner harbour is very narrow, being at one point less than two hundred yards across, but the channel is quite deep and large vessels were able to enter at high tide. Now, however, the fairway was very much obstructed by the submerged floating dock. The cruiser’s steamboat was busy taking soundings as we went through, and we successfully negotiated the passage. The town of Dar-es-Salaam looked very pretty that morning. Its well-built two-storied stone houses, painted white, with tiled and slated roofs, are set among trees and flowering shrubs, and some of them have deep, shady balconies and verandahs which looked cool and inviting. Stretches of green turf ran down to the white, sandy beach; here and there were clumps of bushes and cloudy masses of purple Bougainvillier. But there was not a sign of any human being. The town looked absolutely deserted; and yet, as subsequent events will show, many hidden eyes must have been eagerly watching our approach.

The Tabora was lying about the middle of the harbour; she had a red cross painted on her side, and was flying the hospital flag from her masthead. As we passed her I noticed several figures on the deck, among them being a woman in nurse’s garb. [25] They were all staring hard at us, and probably bitterly reviling the “ verdammte Engländer .” However, the moment had not arrived for me to board her, and so the pinnace passed by and went on up the creek, where we expected to find the other two steamers and the tug Helmuth , which had preceded us earlier in the morning. Sure enough, about a mile further up we found two ships of the D.O.A. Line, the Koenig and the Feldmarschal . They were lying moored together across the creek with their bows almost touching the bank. As we came alongside the Koenig our Commander hailed us from her deck and told the torpedo lieutenant to come aboard and take charge of the explosive work while he took the pinnace further up on a voyage of discovery. I thereupon transhipped to the Helmuth , which was under orders to tow out to our ships two boat-loads of prisoners, and the Commander issued instructions that I should be put aboard the Tabora on the way. A number of German prisoners were sitting in one of the Koenig’s lifeboats, each with a bundle of clothing on his knees or on the thwart beside him. These were engineers and stewards from the two ships; and in another boat were several native firemen.

While we were still alongside the Koenig there came a sudden crash from somewhere deep down in her internal economy—the engine-room, to be precise—and the glass from the skylights, shattered by the explosion, fell tinkling on the deck—Torps was getting to work. The Helmuth now steamed down the creek towing the two boats with the [26] prisoners and their guards, and when we got abreast the Tabora we ran alongside and I boarded her. The tug at once pushed off again, the lieutenant saying that he would return and pick me up later, after he had taken the prisoners out to the ships.

Captain Gauhe in command of the Tabora met me at the top of the gangway, and in fluent English asked me my business. I explained that I was a doctor, and had been instructed to examine his ship in order to make sure that she was—as she claimed to be—a hospital ship. He seemed surprised, but offered no objections, and turning round introduced me to Dr. Weiss, a thin man with projecting ears, and a small, weak chin. The doctor spoke no English, and as at that time my German was no better than that of the average man who has learned the grammar at school and neglected it ever since, we only bowed, and smiled distantly.

The captain then led the way below, explaining as he did so that they had practically no patients on board, as up to the present the shore hospital had been able to meet all demands for accommodation.

On the first-class deck the Sister was introduced to me, but as she too spoke no English, once more I only bowed. I noticed that in contrast to the captain, who was amiable and chatty, and the doctor, who seemed merely nervous, this woman regarded me with a very suspicious and hostile eye.

I looked into several cabins and found that [27] some of the bunks had been removed and those that remained were made up with clean sheets and pillows, apparently all ready for the reception of patients. In response to my enquiry as to whether there were any patients, I was taken into a small cabin where I found a man lying in bed, and I was informed that he had undergone an operation, but he looked remarkably fit and healthy. On turning down the bedclothes I found he had his trousers on! This looked very suspicious. And although further examination revealed a surgical dressing secured with bandages, I asked for these to be removed. Then I saw that he really had a healing operation wound; apparently he was convalescent, but on my arrival had been hurriedly put to bed, with the somewhat childish idea of giving a more convincing aspect to the Tabora’s claim to be a genuine hospital ship. Just as the patient was being re-bandaged I was startled by the sinister rattle of a machine-gun. My examination went no further! With one accord we made a dash for the porthole, but could see nothing from there. Just for a second we looked at each other in consternation, then we made a simultaneous rush for the upper deck. Then we saw the Helmuth with the two boats in tow, steaming through the narrow neck for the open bay as hard as she could lick. All around her the water was lashed by flying bullets, and from the bushes on the shore little spurts of smoke were drifting up into the still air. Not a soul was visible in the boats, presumably they were all crouching in the bottom, and there was [28] no sound save the ominous rat-a-tat-tat of the machine-gun.

“ Mein Gott! ” cried the old captain, wringing his hands. “ Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Dear! Dear! Dear!... Ah, why shoot? Fools! We can’t fight ships!”

But I was only dimly conscious of the commotion around me, for my gaze was riveted on the Helmuth . She was steadily forging ahead, and an occasional puff of smoke from her deck showed that the crew, crouching behind their sandbags, were answering the fire.

It looked as though she would never take the bend. I thought that the coxswain must be shot, and that no one had noticed it. Would she never turn? She seemed running straight for the beach at the foot of the signal staff.... At last ... she swung round ... cleared the bend ... and was lost to sight. As she disappeared the fire from the shore slackened, and after a few more desultory shots, ceased altogether.... Once more a hot, sleepy silence reigned....

I drew a long breath of relief.... It had all passed so quickly, that but for the babel that now broke forth on deck, it might have been a waking nightmare. I turned to the captain, who was terribly excited.

“Oh, Doctor,” he exclaimed, “what fools! Oh, why did they fire? Your ships will shoot now, will they not?”

In almost breathless suspense we waited—watching—listening. From the Tabora we could not see our ships, or what was happening outside.

In a little while, from far out at sea, came a dull boom ... and a moment later the first shell crashed into the palm-trees on the beach. Then they came fast and furious, smashing up the undergrowth, tearing down great palm-fronds, and throwing up fountains of sand. The cocoanut-trees were waving and tossing as in a gale, and above their tops hung clouds of dust and smoke. Presently we heard a yet louder explosion.... Something, probably a house, had been hit. The reddish-yellow lyddite fumes were quickly followed by a dense cloud of black smoke which rolled up over the trees, and the fierce crackle of burning wood was distinctly audible.

“The Governor’s house,” he replied. And in spite of the imminent danger I felt a thrill of exultation that the vile treachery had been so speedily avenged.

For a few seconds the firing seemed to die down; then it broke out afresh. The gunners had now turned their attention to the harbour entrance and we could mark the effect of every shell. Shot after shot dropped round the base of the flagstaff, from which the mocking white flags were still flying. I [30] thought the ships were trying to bring it down; it still stood, however.

Now and again a shell would fall just short of the beach, and exploding, send columns of water and spray high into the air. I saw one shot hit a corner of the signal-house. There followed a cloud of dust; a few bricks seemed to topple slowly over, revealing a jagged hole as though some giant had taken a huge bite.

It was a curious experience. I had frequently watched a battle-practice from the deck of a ship, but this was the first time that I had seen a bombardment from the target end. It was interesting—but exceedingly uncomfortable, especially as shots soon came flying round the Tabora , several plumping into the water almost alongside. Others came over our heads, and as we instinctively and futilely ducked, went sailing away with a long, wailing scream to bury themselves in the undergrowth on the far shore.

The poor old captain was beside himself with anxiety. He herded everyone to the far end of the steamer and stood guard over them like a sheep-dog. The natives crouched under their blankets, howling in dismal chorus each time that a shell went screaming overhead. In the intervals they peeped out fearfully at me as though I was the evil genius that had brought this storm upon them.

Said the captain to me: “Shall I put everyone in the boats and send them ashore?”

“No,” I answered; “I think it is just as safe—probably safer—on board.”

“Yes, they probably know I am here. I don’t think they are trying to hit the ship. It is best to stay where we are.”

Presently the firing ceased. I had no watch, but I reckoned that the bombardment lasted about fifteen minutes. The Tabora received no direct hit, but a large fragment of 12-inch shell landed in her forecastle.

For a little while we waited on deck, listening and watching, but the afternoon stillness was broken only by the crackling of wood from the Governor’s house, which was still burning merrily. At length we came to the conclusion that, for the time being at any rate, the bombardment was over, and the captain led the way into the first saloon and offered me a whisky-and-soda, which I most gratefully accepted. I was now introduced to the engineer, an enormously fat man; there were no less than three distinct rolls of fat—I counted them—between the band of his cap and the collar of his tunic, and he could just squeeze into a large armchair! This officer also spoke good English, but he did not waste much time in talking! He put away three long whiskies-and-sodas in quick succession, drinking them off as if they were bocks.

After two whiskies and a cigar, I felt much better, and began to ponder on what I should do next. I knew the pinnace was still up the creek, [32] and wondered if she had been captured—which seemed possible, as although it was some time since the cessation of the bombardment, she had not yet put in an appearance.

It was about an hour later when, to my intense relief, I at last saw something coming down the stream, and with the aid of glasses made out that it was indeed the pinnace, although at first I could not be certain, as she had a large lighter lashed on each side of her. Having satisfied myself that she was still flying the White Ensign, I asked the captain to let me have a boat to put me aboard her.

With that he ordered his rowing-skiff to be made ready and manned by four natives of the Tabora’s crew. Then, after condoling with him on the nervous strain to which he had been subjected, and congratulating him on the lucky escape of his ship, I bade him good-bye and stepped light-heartedly into the waiting boat.

As I lighted my pipe I hugged the idea that my troubles were over, and a very nasty episode at an end. I knew, of course, that we were likely to be fired at as we went out, but I thought that I should be snug aboard the pinnace, and further that I should be able to tell the Commander where the enemy’s guns were.

As we pushed off and started rowing up-stream, I stood up in the stern and waved to the oncoming pinnace. She had the ebb with her and was [33] coming down at a fair pace. The Commander was standing by the coxswain—he had just answered my hail—and I was turning my boat round so that he could run alongside and pick me up, when suddenly there was a hail of bullets all round us. The natives gave one wild howl, dropped their oars, and grovelled in the bottom of the boat. I kicked the nearest, threatened the others, and managed to get them back into their seats and to grab the oars as they floated by.

Meanwhile we were subjected to an erratic fire from the shore, but the Germans speedily got our range and the bullets began to whistle by unpleasantly close to my head. One of the crew—hit in the chest—slipped off the thwart with a groan, and once more the others took cover in the bottom of the skiff.

A rapid glance at the pinnace showed me that she was still about fifty yards off; the Commander was firing his revolver at the beach. I crouched down and waited in the hope that she would come alongside between me and the shore, so that I could scramble aboard.... The native who had been hit was already past help; even as I tried to crawl to his assistance he gave a convulsive quiver and died.

The bullets were fairly humming overhead; now and then a deeper note in the menacing chorus suggested the passage of some larger projectile—probably something in the nature of a shot from a one-pounder. With straining ears I listened to the beat of the steamboat’s engines, but as the minutes [34] passed, instead of drawing nearer it seemed to me that the sound was getting fainter. Now there were fewer shots flying over my boat ... the fire was drawing off.... Very cautiously I raised my head to see what was happening.... Good heavens!... The pinnace was almost past the Tabora .... I swore! Then, as she was now out of range, the marksmen on the beach turned their attention to me again. Once more the bullets came whizzing past my head.... There was nothing for it but to get down. I lay on my back in the bottom of the boat and cursed.

After a few more shots the firing ceased.... Then I realised that my pipe had burnt out; quite unconsciously I had continued to smoke throughout those frenzied moments!

I heard the pinnace run the gauntlet of the guns at the entrance to the harbour—and then the firing died down again.

Wondering if those beggars on the beach were still watching my boat, I held my topee above the gunwale.... Sure enough, there came an immediate answering volley, and a bullet crashed through the gunwale just above my head. The shooting was improving.... I made up my mind that I was certain to be hit, and fell to wondering what it would feel like.... Would it sting and smart, or simply numb?

They now kept up an irregular fire, evidently taking pot-shots at me.... Probably betting on the results. I felt wild! There I was, lying on my back in an open boat being fired at, and with no [35] chance of replying, for, as a medical man, I was absolutely unarmed.

With a sudden inspiration I seized the tiller-ropes and moved the rudder from side to side, hoping to impart a little way to the boat. I could not judge of the result and did not care in what direction I went, my one idea being to get out of my present predicament. At length I saw the masts of the Tabora coming into view over the gunwale. Slowly they grew taller and taller. The ebb-tide was carrying the boat down, and with any luck we should drift alongside. As we neared her the fire from the shore ceased, and in another minute we were able to sit up and paddle to the gangway.

Every soul on board was leaning over the rail, looking down on us and chattering excitedly. As I gained the deck the captain grasped my hand.

“Oh, Doctor,” he exclaimed, “are you hit? Have you been wounded? I had no idea they would fire at you. Oh, you do believe me, don’t you?” And he kept on repeating over and over again: “I would never have allowed you to go if I had known they would shoot at you.”

“Yes,” he answered; “it was marvellous to see how steadily she held her course. I saw one man with blood running down his arm, and others lying on the deck firing. Ah! ... the fire was terrific! It is wonderful if anyone came through alive.”

Just after I got on board the ships opened fire again, and we were subjected to another bombardment even more trying than the first, but mercifully shorter.

After the mad turmoil of the afternoon the silence was uncanny. I felt absolutely finished; the reaction after all the excitement was worse than the actual strain at the time. I found my hand shaking when I lifted a glass to my lips, and I could not stop it though I realised how absurd it was. I felt so dead tired, mentally and physically, I could not even bother to wonder what would become of me, or how I could rejoin my ship.

The captain invited me to dine with him in his cabin, and provided a very nice little meal; but I was too tired to be properly appreciative.

While we were still at table some of the native crew came in and spoke excitedly to my host. When they had gone he told me that they had said that nothing would induce them to take me in a boat again. I said that I could quite understand their feelings, and did not blame them. After all, it was not their quarrel!

“But,” asked the captain, “how will you get back to your ship? Will they send a boat for you to-night?”

“I don’t think they will send any more boats [37] now,” I answered, “but I hope they will send in the morning.”

“Then you had better sleep on board to-night,” he said. “I can let you have a cabin. Will you promise to stay in it?”

The steward brought me a new toothbrush and a tin of “Three Castles” cigarettes. I had no sleeping-suit, so I turned in in my shirt. But in spite of my exhaustion, perhaps because of it, it was not until early morning that I fell asleep.

“Your ships sailed away in the direction of Zanzibar just before dawn this morning.”

This was the unwelcome news with which the steward greeted me at 6 a.m. on the morning following that adventurous 28th of November. It was a facer! I could not understand why they had abandoned me, and it was not until long afterwards that I learned that when I had crouched down in the boat to shelter from the flying bullets those in the pinnace thought that I had been killed.

I got up, washed and dressed, and just as I was leaving my cabin the captain came to me and said: “A guard has come to take you ashore. You had better have some coffee before you go.” I thanked him, drank the coffee when it arrived, and then said “good-bye.” I should like here to put on record that Captain Gauhe treated me throughout the whole business with the utmost consideration.

When he saw me, the man who had been sent to fetch me grinned all over his face. He was of a German Colonial type, and was wearing ordinary clothes, with the addition of a badge of black, white and red on his shoulders. He also wore a bandolier and carried a rifle. A small motor-boat conveyed [39] us to the shore, and I was taken first to the house of Herr Human, one of the civil officials. To him I explained my case, and he took down full particulars in writing. He then assured me that in due course I should be returned to Zanzibar, but that in the meantime I must be kept nominally under arrest until arrangements could be made for sending me back. He gave some instructions in German to my guard, who then marched me through the town. It was Sunday morning, and the bells were ringing for service. We met many German women on their way to church, and they stared at me with undisguised curiosity.

I looked eagerly around for signs of the bombardment, but in the part of the town through which I was taken there was not much damage to be seen. Here and there a branch was broken off a tree, or there was a hole in the ground, and I saw one house with a corner knocked away and the room within exposed to view, but nothing more.

Proceeding in a northerly direction, we soon left the houses behind, and passed the great enclosure originally destined for the Dar-es-Salaam Exhibition of 1914. Beyond this we came upon some native troops encamped in a cocoanut plantation. Here I was taken before an officer who spoke no English, but he gave me a seat and a glass of iced soda-water while he conversed with my guard. I gathered that the officer did not want to take charge of me, so, after a short rest, we went on.

We now wandered about on the outskirts of the town from one point to the other. I was taken [40] before many officers, who glanced at me curiously, shook their heads, and directed us elsewhere.

I noticed that my guard was getting “fed up,” and no wonder! It was now about 11 a.m., and fearfully hot, and he was weighed down with his rifle and equipment. At length we struck an officer who spoke a little English. He was one of a group standing in a little glade, and they were passing beer-bottles around while their ponies cropped the grass. To him my guard explained the situation, after which he flung himself on the ground firmly refusing to go any further! There was a great laugh at this, and another man—a black-bearded fellow from the backwoods—was detailed for my guard. After a bottle of beer, which temporarily put new life into me, I started off once more with my new escort. He seemed to have a much clearer idea of where to go. We returned to the town, and I was taken to a large building which proved to be the terminus of the Central Railway.

Here I was given a seat in the waiting-room, which appeared to be used as a military depôt. Some badged clerks were employed in sending and receiving telegrams, and officers of various ranks kept popping in and out. They looked at me with curiosity, but evidently I was no concern of theirs, for they left me in peace.

I began to get very bored, and wished something would happen. Also I was very hungry, for it was past midday and I had had nothing to eat since the biscuit with my coffee at 7 a.m.

Then there entered an officer who knew English, [41] and evidently thought it would be interesting to exchange views about the war. He was a tall, spare fellow with close-cropped red hair, a fair, bushy moustache, and extraordinarily blue eyes—what I believe are sometimes called “china blue.” We had a long chat, and I found him very amicable, though grossly misinformed. He seemed to think me even more ignorant!

The conversation began by his asking me: “Are you from the —— or the ——?” naming our ships.

“Oh,” he laughed, “we know the ——, she has often been here, but we did not know the name of the battleship until we took your men prisoners yesterday; then we read it on their caps.”

“What! have you other prisoners?” I exclaimed in surprise, for I thought I was the only man left behind.

“Why, yes,” he answered; “we took three officers and eight men from the steamer Koenig .”

“Ah, I don’t know the names,” he answered; and then went on to enquire: “Do you get the news every day in your ships?”

“Our army will be in Paris within a week. We have taken Calais,” he affirmed.

“No. I saw the news yesterday morning, before I left the ship. Then you were many miles from Calais.”

“Oh, the Russians!” he laughed. “The Russians are finished—absolutely.”

“I think your information must be wrong,” I maintained. “We receive Reuter’s news daily, and it is quite different from what you tell me.”

“Ah, that is a pity,” he said. “If you could, you might have read it here. But what I have told you is the truth.”

I, too, felt that it was a pity, for it would have been interesting to see the sort of stuff they were being fed with.

He tapped the papers in his hand: “This is German official news—it cannot lie. We know your Reuter also, but Reuter is lies—lies—all lies. After the war Reuter will have to pay heavily for trying to conceal the truth from the world.”

He flung the papers back on the table, shrugged his shoulders, and said: “You do not want to believe; but one day you will know that I speak the truth.”

Then, changing the conversation, he asked if I had had anything to eat. On my replying that I had had nothing since seven o’clock, “Have you any money?” he queried. I answered: “Not a coin!” He spoke for a moment in German to my guard, and then turning to me said: “I have told the guard to take you to the hotel. You can order what you like, and England shall pay—after the war.”

I was taken to a small hotel just across the road from the station. I forget its name, but it was not the palatial “Kaiserhof.” We took seats at a table in a sort of portico. As my guard could not speak English, conversation was limited, and we both applied ourselves to the fare in front of us. I made a good meal, but missed the bread and pudding, neither of which is here considered essential to the midday repast.

There were several Germans lunching at different tables, and I was interested to note that the majority of them drank whisky and soda in preference to beer. Later I found that the former was the most common beverage throughout the Colony. I and my guard also drank whisky—more than one! I believe his was also at the expense of England. I wonder when the proprietors will be paid!

After our meal we returned to the station, and there had another long wait. It was a very hot afternoon, and there was not much business doing. The clerks apparently could not leave their posts, but a native boy was kept busy the whole time running over to the hotel and returning with whiskies.

While sitting in the waiting-room I was startled by a loud explosion, followed at intervals by others. The natives who had been lounging round the doorway and in the street promptly fled. I imagined that the ships had returned and opened fire, but to my anxious query the answer, given with a pitying smile, was: “Oh no! It is only the military exploding your shells which failed to burst yesterday!”

At length, about 4.30 p.m., a little dark officer arrived, accompanied by a so-called “interpreter,” whose knowledge of English was extremely elementary. He was a dirty little man, with two or three days’ growth of stubble on his chin. He said to me:

“This officer commander. He say you go with him now, and he give you good supper, and good room to sleep.”

The officer then dismissed my armed guard, offered me a mauve silk tipped cigarette, and motioned me to enter a double ricksha which was in waiting. He then got in himself, and we started down the road. In a few minutes the ricksha stopped opposite a large barrack-like building. We dismounted, and entered through a gateway guarded by native soldiers. I had thought, from [45] what the interpreter told me, that I was to be taken to a private house for the night, but now it struck me that perhaps this was the military barracks, and I should be accommodated in the Officers’ Mess.

I was speedily undeceived!... Crossing a courtyard in which several native soldiers were standing, we entered an echoing stone-flagged corridor with small but solid doors on either side. Here we were met by a Warder ! ... unmistakably ... a Warder! ... armed with a revolver, and having a heavy bunch of keys at his belt. I was ushered through one of the doors into a cell. An English-speaking German—a prisoner—was brought to interpret. He said:

“The Commander apologises that he cannot offer you better accommodation. This is the prison, but you must not consider yourself a prisoner. It will be necessary to lock you in to-night; that is not because we think you want to escape, but because there are other English prisoners and you might let them out. The Commander is sorry it is necessary to take this precaution.”

I answered that I understood, but that I would like to see the other English officers, and that I would like something to eat.

Having translated, he said: “Your supper will be brought to you presently. The Commander is sorry he cannot allow you to see the other English officers to-night. Is there anything else he can do for you?”

“Thank him, please, and tell him that I do [46] not think there is anything more he can do for me.”

I felt grimly that he had done little enough, but at least he was civil, and I supposed that that was something to be thankful for! He now bowed, and they all withdrew, but, presumably with the intention of keeping up the fiction that I was not a prisoner, they left the door open.

I now had leisure to examine my cell. It was big and roomy, about twelve feet by eighteen feet, and fairly lofty. Opposite the door was a large unglazed window covered with mosquito-netting, and guarded by iron bars. In the centre stood an iron bedstead with a straw mattress and pillows, and two sheets; it also was fitted with mosquito-curtains. The rest of the furniture consisted of a table, a chair, a camp washstand, and a mirror. The latter was screwed to the wall, on which also hung a printed card of rules and regulations to be observed by the prisoners. As this was in German I could not read it. The window gave upon a small gravelled courtyard bounded by a high brick wall, above which I could just see the trees of the free outer world.

There were several mosquitoes dancing up and down on the blind, and recognising among them the fever-bearing Anopheles, I made haste to lower the curtains round my bed in preparation for the night. Then I sat down on the hard-bottomed chair and spread out my few possessions on the table before me. They comprised the toothbrush and the tin of “Three Castles” cigarettes given me by the [47] captain of the Tabora , a small note-book and indelible pencil, two briar pipes and a large pouch full of navy tobacco, and a box half-full of matches. These, with the clothes I was wearing, formed the sum of my worldly wealth. Not much, it is true, but later I found that the others were even less well equipped. They had been searched, and deprived of the few things they had on them, including in one instance a silver cigarette-case. Some months later there was an enquiry about this, but the missing articles were never recovered. We were informed that they must have been taken by one of the Askaris, as “no German would steal.”

While I was thus employed, I noticed some of the prisoners taking exercise up and down the corridor; among them I recognised S——. As he passed the door he made a grimace at me, as though to say: “What do you think of this?” I waved back to him. We did not know if we were allowed to speak, so did not risk it.

Presently my supper was brought in by the young German who had acted as interpreter. I discovered that he was a bank-clerk undergoing a term of imprisonment for embezzlement.

The supper consisted of a most unappetising mess of fat pork, and potatoes fried in fat, the whole being served up in a tin pannikin with a metal spoon to eat it with. There was also a mug of black coffee and a lump of schwarzbrod . Hungry though I was, I could not tackle the greasy mess of meat and potatoes, so made my supper off the bread and coffee.

Here, in the tropics, the sun sets between six and half-past all the year round, and I was smoking a contemplative pipe by the light of a small paraffin lamp when a warder entered, wished me a curt “ Gute nacht ,” and snatching up my lamp, went out, slamming and bolting the door behind him. What did he care if the Engländer was so ignorant as not to know the hour that indicated “Lights out”?

I had to undress and get to bed as best I could in the dark. As I had no sleeping garments I wrapped myself up in one of the sheets, and having carefully tucked in the mosquito-curtains, settled down for the night. I slept fairly well, but at intervals I was dimly conscious that someone came and slipped back the grille in the door to have a look at me.

At daybreak I was awakened by the warder, who opened the door with a great rattle of bolts and keys. He said something to me in German, but I did not understand, and as I was still feeling very drowsy, I merely rolled over in bed and listened lazily to his progress down the corridor, punctuated by the noise of the unbolting of other doors. By and bye, on his return journey, he glanced into my cell and discovered me still in bed. In he strode with a mighty bluster, shouting: “ Aus! Aus! Stehen sie auf. ” I gave him to understand that I was just about to get up, so he left me. Slipping out of bed, I looked out into the corridor. There I saw T——, who told me we were allowed to have a bath, so I picked up [49] the small towel provided and followed him to the bathroom.

In this room, which had a cemented floor, a bath with a spray was fitted. We were allowed to talk, but not to close the door, and we commiserated with each other while we washed.

By the time I was dressed one of the German prisoners brought in my breakfast of black coffee, blood-sausage and black bread. After breakfast the other English officers were brought to my cell and we were all locked in together. When we asked the reason for this, we were informed that our men were just going to be brought down from an upper storey, and we must be locked in until they had been escorted to the station. I wonder if the Germans thought that we should incite them to make trouble?

Now at last I had an opportunity of hearing the adventures of the others. They told me that they had been left on board the Koenig with orders to complete the destruction of her engines. When the firing started they were still below in the engine-room. They all rushed up on deck, but for a long time could see no sign of the steamboat. At last they spotted her, but she was already a long way down the creek and steaming away from them. They shouted and waved, but could not succeed in attracting her attention. After she had disappeared they remained hidden on deck, hoping that when night fell they would have an opportunity of escaping. However, just before dark they realised that a force of German and black [50] troops had mustered on the bank and were deliberating on the best method of attack. They quickly took counsel together, and decided that as they had no rifles, and not even a revolver apiece, it was futile to offer any resistance.

Therefore when the Germans appeared on deck they had to surrender with the best grace they could, and without firing a shot. It was a bitter business.... Thereafter they were marched through ranks of threatening and shouting Askaris to the local gaol: so they had had one night more in prison than I. They told me that they were as surprised to see me brought in on Sunday as I had been to hear of their capture.

By the time they had finished their recital the door was opened once more to admit a native barber, who asked if we would like a shave. We all had two days’ growth of beard, and were feeling dirty and uncomfortable in consequence, so we were only too pleased to avail ourselves of this opportunity—more especially as it was at the expense of the German Government. Indeed, had it been otherwise, we should have had to forego that luxury, for none of us had any money.

While we were being shaved, one of the German prisoners came in and chatted with us. He was a good-looking, well-set-up, bearded young fellow, and he told us he was a planter, and was undergoing nine months’ imprisonment for beating natives. It appeared that in German East Africa they have a system of importing native labour from distant parts of the Colony to work on plantations [51] where the local labour obtainable is insufficient. Various contractors, mainly of Greek and Italian nationality, undertake to supply native labour. The hirer has to pay a certain sum down for each man hired; this is to cover the cost of collecting and delivering him. Well, some of the imported labourers on this young German’s estate ran away, and he, knowing that if he applied to the Government it would be a long time before the men were returned, determined to take the law into his own hands. So he followed the runaways, caught some of them, and brought them back. Then, as the law in German East Africa allows, he beat them. But unfortunately the punishment he meted out to one of them was so severe that the wretched man died.

At about a quarter to seven a Leutenant came into my cell. In peace-time he was an officer in the D.O.A. steamship line, and he spoke a little English. He informed us that he had orders to conduct us up-country to a place called Kilimatinde. This explained why our men had already been taken to the railway-station, whither, it appeared, we were to follow them. In view of the repeated assurances made me on the previous day that I was not to consider myself a prisoner, it seemed odd that I was evidently to be included in the party, but I comforted myself with the reflection that my detention could only be temporary, and was probably due to one of those official tangles of “red tape” with which we are not wholly unacquainted at home.

None of us was encumbered with luggage, and I had only to slip my toothbrush and tin of cigarettes into my pocket to be ready on the instant.

We were marched down the corridor and lined up in the prison courtyard. Then the guard was called out, and eight Askaris “fell in.” S—— nudged me and whispered: “They are going to give us a parting salute!” But far from their ideas was any such courteous intention! On the [53] word of command the eight loaded with ball cartridge, and fixing bayonets, formed up round us. Then we stepped out for the station, walking in couples, with two Askaris in front of us, two behind, and two on either side.

Presently we passed three companies of soldiers drawn up in the street. Two of these were composed of natives, and one of Germans. These latter were mostly planters and traders from up-country, a large number of whom had been called down to Dar-es-Salaam in expectation of a landing from the ships following on the bombardment. They all wore a sort of khaki uniform with a black, white and red ribbon on the shoulder, and a button of the same colours on their helmets.

On reaching the station, we were put into one of the waiting-rooms and kept there for about a quarter of an hour; then we were marched to our train.

We had a first-class compartment to ourselves, the Leutenant in charge of us travelling in one adjoining. The train was composed of corridor coaches with entrances at each end. The seats of the first-class were arranged to accommodate three passengers on either side, and the backs were made in such wise that they could be raised and converted into bunks at night. One of the Askaris was posted in the corridor to keep watch on us by day, and two kept watch after nightfall, but the remainder of them travelled on the rear platform. The first “saw” bayonet I had ever seen belonged to one of our Askari guard. It is stated that the [54] saw is merely intended for the cutting of wood and suchlike innocuous and peaceful purposes—but, even if one can bring oneself to swallow this rather far-fetched explanation, the most elementary knowledge of human nature will show that, in the excitement of a fight, its possessor is just as likely as not to use it on a human opponent, and I shuddered to think of the horrid tearing, jagged wound it would inflict.

I started on this journey with a comparatively light heart, being still under the delightful delusion that before long I should be back with my own people, and with an interesting and probably unique experience to my credit. My companions, however, could not venture to hope for such speedy release as had been promised to me, so I busied myself in taking down messages to deliver to their friends and relatives when I reached home.

It is a merciful provision of an All-wise Providence that we mortals can but rarely lift even a corner of that veil which shrouds the future; such foreknowledge would in nine cases out of ten render the present too hard for human endurance. As it is, the Star of Hope shines ever through the darkest hours, its light a spur and a beacon for man’s fainting courage. In common with the majority of the civilised world, we never dreamed at this time that the war could last more than a few months—at most, a year.

Presently, when I had committed to memory and so far as was possible to paper, all my comrades’ messages, I settled down to extract as much [55] information and amusement as possible from my novel situation. With the exception of a few days at Mombasa, which, being a port of European call, can hardly be considered typical, this was the first time that I had set foot on the great African Continent.

For some distance along the line from Dar-es-Salaam the land is cultivated, both European plantations and small native “shambas” being relatively plentiful. “Shamba” is the Swahili name for a cultivated plot, and is commonly used in the Colony when speaking even of European-owned estates.

After travelling for about ten or fifteen miles we came to Pugu, and here the line runs through a small gorge cut in a range of low hills, and the scenery is most picturesque. From Pugu a steady climb brought us to Ruvu, which place is situated on a plateau some considerable height above sea-level. Looking back from here, one can see for miles and miles over the lowlands and out to the coast.

There are a number of large plantations in the Ruvu district, consisting mainly of rubber-trees and sisel. The latter is a species of Agave, and it is the long, tough fibre running the length of the fleshy spear-like leaf which gives it its commercial importance—this fibre being largely used in the manufacture of ropes, matting and similar merchandise. I also noticed here a plantation of “false cotton-trees,” which produce pods containing seeds set in a quantity of white downy [56] substance resembling cotton-wool. This is used locally for the stuffing of pillows and mattresses, but the fibre is too short to allow of its being used to any great extent in spinning.

At each station—and the train stopped at practically every one—groups of natives would gather round our carriage, pointing at us and chattering excitedly. The Germans made no attempt to drive them off; possibly they thought it would enhance their own prestige among the aborigines to thus exhibit some of the “terrible English” in the humiliating position of captives of the Teutonic bow and spear! However, we did not mind, for we derived nearly as much amusement from watching the antics of the spectators as they did from the sight of the formidable prisoners!

The natives were of various types, but all dark-skinned, although some were lighter than others, and here and there a certain regularity of feature suggested an Arab strain. Their dress was almost identical with that of the Mombasa natives. In the present day they are almost entirely dependent on the European manufacturer for clothing, and, later on, owing to supplies being cut off by our blockade, this dependence became very marked, many of them being reduced to going about clothed in sacking, or any odd bit of stuff—such, for instance, as old Nottingham lace curtains! Some wisely reverted to the native bark and fibre cloth.

From Ruvu the line still rises gradually. I was surprised to find the vegetation much less tropical than I had expected. The cocoanut and other [57] palms, which always seem so typical of the tropics, flourish only on the coast, or near water, preferably brackish, and so on the uplands, where there is a long dry season, they are seen very rarely. Except in the neighbourhood of stations, where there was usually a plantation or two, the railway ran for the most part through rough grass-land—sparsely dotted with little stunted trees—or through dense scrubby bush.

About midday we began to feel very hungry, and asked when we might hope to have something to eat. We were informed that nothing could be obtained until the train arrived at Morogoro, where it was due at about 3 p.m. The Leutenant bought us some small wild mangoes at a wayside station, and these were very refreshing, though horribly messy to eat. On that journey we learned our first word of Swahili—it was the word for “water.” During the afternoon we got very thirsty, and we did not care to disturb the Leutenant, who was asleep, so we said to the Askari on guard, “Water.” But he only grinned: so then we resorted to pantomime and made motions of raising a cup to our lips and drinking. This seemed to amuse him immensely, and apparently he thought that we were giving an entertainment for his benefit!

Finally, however, it seemed to dawn upon him that we wanted something, but being a dull fellow he only shook his head and looked bewildered. In the end he summoned the native sergeant—a most ugly and repulsive-looking old man, but he nevertheless seemed to be much more intelligent than his [58] subordinate, for when we repeated our panto he said in enquiring tones: “ Maji? ” “Yes,” we answered, nodding vigorously. “Bring Margie!” He departed, and our hope that he had understood was swiftly realised, for he reappeared with a water-bottle, and, better still, at the next station he procured from somewhere an empty whisky-bottle and saw that it was kept filled with water for us.... A humane old fellow, for all his lack of beauty!

It was well after three o’clock when we got to Morogoro, which place—after the fall of Dar-es-Salaam—became the capital and seat of government in German East Africa. We were all feeling uncommonly hungry. The Leutenant got out and went across to the hotel to see if a meal had been prepared for us; finding all in order, he sent the little corporal to fetch us. I do not think I have mentioned the little corporal before. He was a German—Rickert by name—a short little man, inclined to stoutness, with a bullet-head and a very pug nose, but a pleasant expression withal. He joined our party at Dar-es-Salaam station, but we did not realise at first that he was going all the way with us. He seemed to be well known, and very popular in the district, for at every station we had seen him out on the platform chatting with the planters who had come down to meet the bi-weekly train, or bowing stiffly to their wives.

It seemed to be the custom for anyone living near a station to come down to meet the train. They were certain to find someone on it whom they [59] knew, and in this way they got all the news and scandal much quicker than by waiting for the local news-sheet.

Rickert now came up to us, and making his stiff little bow, said in laboured English: “Will you please komm?” So we followed him, and escorted by a guard of Askaris with fixed bayonets, crossed the road to the hotel. Here a meal had been prepared for us. It began with soup, which was followed by roast meat and two vegetables—of which we each had a second helping—and it finished with bread and cheese. The Leutenant sat at a neighbouring fable, and as we saw that he was drinking whisky and soda, we were hopeful of getting some too. But plain soda was our portion. As soon as we had finished eating, the guard who had been standing outside escorted us back to our carriage. Then the train started once more, and we soon left Morogoro behind. It is, by the way, a rather pretty little town, nestling at the foot of some high mountains—the Uluguru range.

When we had settled down we discovered that two German girls had taken possession of an adjoining compartment. One was a young mother with a small boy of about two years old, and they had numerous packages, as well as a parrot in a cage. We seemed to be a source of much interest to them, for they were continually jumping up to rearrange their parcels on the overhead shelf, which manœuvre enabled them to look over into our compartment, the sliding partition being down [60] After a rapid glance their heads would disappear again, and the sound of stifled whispering and many giggles came to our ears.

A little later the native attendant came round to arrange the bunks for the night. The backs of the seats were raised and held in position by straps, so that in our compartment this gave us a bunk apiece. We drew lots for the upper berths, and S—— was the winner of the one next to the ladies; but before he retired to roost the sliding partition was drawn, veiling the mysteries of the next compartment, and we made merry over his supposed disappointment!

All the carriages were fitted with wire window-blinds, and I noticed that at certain points on the line the attendant came round and carefully closed these. On enquiry I learned that this was done whenever the train ran through a tse-tse belt, and it was with a view to excluding the flies and preventing any of them from being carried in the train to uninfected districts, it having been proved that the tse-tse fly is often carried in this way from one spot to another.

When it got dark the guard in the corridor was increased from one to two Askaris, and a small paraffin lamp was hung up in our compartment to enable them to keep a watch on our movements. We had no blankets, but presently made ourselves as comfortable as we could for the night. I took off my coat and rolled it up for a pillow, and then divesting myself of my boots, settled down to sleep. During the night it turned bitterly cold, and none [61] of us slept much, though we managed to doze off at intervals.

In the morning I woke just before sunrise; outside everything looked very cold and white in the grey dawning; indeed, so low was the temperature, and so white appeared the stones and bare, leafless bushes, that at first I thought there must have been a frost during the night. We got up, and having made the best toilet possible in the circumstances, stamped up and down the carriage trying to get warm, until, at about 6.30 a.m., the train stopped at Saranda station.

At Saranda we were ordered to alight, and found that breakfast had been prepared for us—and a very good breakfast too. There were sardines and sausage, bread, butter and marmalade, and coffee with milk and sugar. We did full justice to the meal, but did not linger long over it, as we had a three hours’ march before us, and the Leutenant had warned us that it would be advisable to get it over in the cool of the morning.

It must, however, have been quite 7.30 before we got under way. An old white pony had been sent down for the Leutenant, so he was able to undertake the journey in comparative comfort. The little corporal led off at a brisk pace, then came two Askaris, and we followed, marching in couples with two of the guards on each side of us, and two bringing up the rear. It was a treat to be able to move freely after being cooped up in a train for twenty-four hours, and we all walked with a will. I rather fancy our marching powers impressed little Rickert, and he soon found the pace quite hot. Anyway, he started mopping his face long before we had begun to sweat, and soon discarded his belt and bayonet, and undid his coat. Presently he took that off too, and threw it across the pony.

Shortly after leaving Saranda the road, which was of fair width, and in quite passable condition, entered a stretch of scrub or bush, totally devoid of leaf. This walk was the most monotonous I have ever experienced. Mile after mile we tramped, but ever on either side stretched the interminable bare scrub. A single telephone wire ran alongside the road, and at last we were reduced to keeping count of the poles by way of occupation.

When about half the journey had been accomplished, the Leutenant called a halt, and offered us a drink of tea from his bottle. The tea was supposed to be cold, but the combined heat of the sun and the pony had made it lukewarm! However, it refreshed us, and after ten minutes’ rest, during which we smoked a cigarette, we started off again with renewed vigour. By this time the sun was well up, and even the Askaris felt its power. The perspiration stood in beads on their dark skins, and dank wet patches appeared on their uniforms and gradually spread. Their steps became flagging and slow, and one of them, quite footsore, began slowly, but surely, to drop behind. We were rather bucked to find that we could walk the natives off their feet, for we were still in good condition, and I, though dripping from every pore, felt quite fresh. But of course the test was hardly a fair one, for the natives were in uniform, and encumbered by their packs and belts, and, greatest handicap of all, puttees and heavy boots. Had they been arrayed in their customary simplicity, barefoot, and with no more than a loin-cloth, [64] we could not have hoped to keep up with them.

Here it may be of interest to describe the Askari uniform, which consists of a khaki tunic buttoned up to the neck, khaki trousers held in place below the knee by puttees, and heavy brown boots. The equipment is of leather, and shows much skill and ingenuity in design. A leather belt fastened in front by a brass clip encircles the waist and supports two box-like pouches of ammunition. From the belt two straps pass over the shoulders, meeting in the middle of the back, and from there continued as a single strap, which, by means of a brass catch, hooks into the belt behind. The haversack and rolled-up blanket are carried on a metal slide, which can be adjusted to various heights on the shoulder-straps. The water-bottles are excellent—made of aluminium covered with leather; they are carried in an aluminium bucket which forms a drinking-cup. On active service a canvas bag for rations is also carried slung across the shoulders. The bayonet is supported in a frog attached to the belt in the usual way. The rifles, however, were all of old pattern, some of enormous calibre, resembling elephant-rifles. The ammunition for these latter had the old-fashioned leaden bullets, and this may account for the terrific wounds which have been observed in the East African campaign; although I was informed by the Germans that they endeavoured to arm all their Askaris in the fighting-line with the modern rifle firing the nickel-covered bullet.

But to return to our journey, or safari , as it is termed in East African parlance, safari being the Swahili word for journey, and corresponding to the South African “trek.” After a weary trudge through bush that seemed never ending, and went on and on like a nightmare, we came out on some rising ground—a sort of low hill, where the scrub was less dense, and from whence we could discern in the distance a cluster of native huts, and a big white building from which the German flag was flying. This, it appeared, was our destination.

When we drew near the place we halted for a few minutes to breathe the Askaris and to allow them to make the necessary adjustments to their uniforms. The little corporal resumed his coat and belt, and we, not to be outdone, and with that instinct, expressed in the “Tommies’” challenge of “Are we down-hearted? No!”—straightened our backs, buttoned our coats, and generally smartened ourselves up as well as we could.... Then we set off at a quick step through the village.

All the natives and Arab traders crowded out of their houses to stare at us, and presently we arrived at the entrance to the big building we had seen from afar. Evidently our arrival had been reported, for, as we halted, two German officials came out to meet us, and at the same time, to our utter amazement, there fell upon our ears the ring of an unmistakable British cheer! It came from above our heads, and looking up we saw several people waving to us from the windows. The two Germans stopped horror-stricken, and one of them, [66] a short, stout man, said something rapidly to his subordinate, who thereupon ran back into the courtyard, and in a few seconds the welcoming heads were withdrawn.

Then the little man came up and addressed us in fairly good English. He stated that we were prisoners of war, and were required to conform to all prison regulations then in force, or that might later be decreed; and further, that if we were caught in the act of attempting to escape we were liable to be shot at sight. Then he asked if we would give our word of honour not to conspire or attempt to escape, in which case we should be granted all privileges enjoyed by the other prisoners. We had visions of being confined in separate cells if we refused our “parole,” and further, we had realised on our journey up from the coast that escape through that hostile and barren country would be practically impossible, and any attempt must inevitably end in death or recapture. So we gave the word required of us, and the Kommandant came round and solemnly shook hands with each of us in turn. This ceremony over, we were marched through the Boma entrance into the courtyard. Here Rickert, having gravely saluted us, retired with his Askaris.

Now some British interned prisoners who had been waiting in the doorway of one of the buildings came up, and having introduced themselves, escorted us to one of their rooms, where we were met by a whole crowd of our fellow-countrymen. These were planters, miners and missionaries who [67] had been domiciled in the Colony when war broke out. Naturally they greeted us with a cross-fire of questions. First, where and how had we been captured? And then endless queries as to the progress of the war in Europe. Since their internment they had had none but German news, and they were enormously relieved to hear that the Teutonic invading forces had been checked in France, and had not, as they had been told by the Germans, captured Paris. They enquired most anxiously if the report of the British withdrawal from Tanga was correct, and we had sadly to admit that it was.

Shortly after our arrival, it was midday, and dinner-time, whereupon our new friends took us across the courtyard to the dining-hall, in which room all meals were taken in common. Native “boys” were appointed to wait on the prisoners. I was invited to sit at a table at which were Mr. W——, a rubber planter, and his wife, together with a missionary and a Mr. S—— B——. The latter had been cinematograph-operator to the ill-fated Cape to Cairo Motor Expedition, and the expedition having been abandoned somewhere near Lake Tanganyka, S—— B—— was on his way to the coast via the D.O.A. Central Railway, when he was seized by the Germans and hauled into captivity.

The meal, though nothing out of the way, proved good and satisfying; it consisted of boiled chicken followed by rice served with fruit-syrup. When it was over we were shown the room allotted to us. It was fairly large, and had a cemented [68] floor. The furniture comprised a camp bedstead in each corner, a washstand with four enamelled basins and one jug, a chest of drawers (at the moment of little use to us, since we had nothing to put in it!), four cane chairs, and one long chair.

We were all feeling rather tired after the long, hot march, so we lay down on our beds and were soon fast asleep.

We woke about four o’clock, and shortly afterwards were summoned to tea—which proved to be coffee, already mixed with milk, and sweetened. I do not care for sugar in coffee, and I found that Mrs. W—— had similar tastes, so she offered to share her special brew with me, and thereafter we always had a pot to ourselves. No solid food was provided with this meal, and knowing this, the other prisoners had saved some of their morning’s bread to eat with it—but we had to do without. As bread was provided only at breakfast and supper, if we wanted it at any other time it was necessary to save some. In the early days of our captivity this was easy, as we were allowed a plentiful supply, but when later on it was cut down, a certain amount of unseemly bickering ensued. This was due to the fact that the bread was not rationed out, but just piled up on a plate in the middle of each table, and the early birds used to pocket more than their fair share, with the result that a late-comer found himself without any bread for breakfast, let alone to save for another meal.

At first I was amazed that such petty selfishness [69] could exist among fellow-prisoners and fellow-sufferers, and these, too, drawn mainly from a class accustomed to the courteous, self-denying ordinance usual among well-bred and educated people; but later on I attributed the ugly phenomenon to the well-established fact that the rigours of imprisonment are apt to wear away the veneer of civilisation, revealing below its surface the primitive animal instinct of self-preservation.

Hitherto the prisoners had been allowed outside the Boma precincts for exercise after tea, but on the day of our arrival, as a punishment for the cheering with which we had been received, this privilege was suspended, and we were included among the culprits. For three days we were “gated” like naughty schoolboys, and, moreover, one of the missionaries was awarded three days’ solitary confinement for the same offence. It appeared that after the peremptory order against cheering had been issued, one solitary “Hurrah!” had been heard. An Askari, sent to find out who the offender might be, so badgered the Rev. F—— with questions that that gentleman, in a fit of irritation, replied: “Oh, very well— I did it. Go away!” Later, when it was found that punishment was to be meted out, the real offender owned up, but the Kommandant would not allow the sentence to be transferred to him! He said that he believed the word of the Askari—that the first man had said he had done it—and that he was not going to open the case again!

That evening we amused ourselves by playing [70] cards until supper-time. This meal was at 6.30 p.m., and consisted of cold meat and bread and cheese; the latter was not such as we are accustomed to in England—it was made of skim milk, and merely strained, not pressed at all, so it appeared in a loose, moist condition and still full of the sour whey. Many of the prisoners would not touch it, but it was not really so bad when you got used to it.

Supper over, we again played cards and talked. At this time no lighting restrictions were in force, and a hurricane-lamp was provided for each room. Evidently there was an ample supply of paraffin in the Colony, and the Germans were of the opinion that the war could not last long. Further, at this date there was no official bedtime, and we were allowed to sit up as long as we chose.

When, about 9.30, we were ready to turn in, we managed to borrow some sleeping-suits and towels from our fellow-prisoners, who had brought with them everything that they might need.

My pillow was very thin and lumpy, and not conducive to slumber, but in time wearied nature triumphed over that obstacle, and I fell asleep, and did not wake until morning.

At the commencement of our captivity we were waited on by native “boys,” one of these being allotted as servant to every half-dozen or so of prisoners. They were responsible for the tidiness of our rooms, did the washing, and waited at table. Later, as I shall relate, only officers were allowed to [71] have servants, the rest of the prisoners having to do everything for themselves.

At first we found it very difficult to make our “boy” understand what we wanted, for he spoke no language but his own, and we came to the conclusion that a knowledge of Swahili would come in very useful, so we started right away to take lessons in that dialect from the missionaries, who were eager and willing to teach us. Many mornings we spent in this study, but until we became fairly proficient we were dependent on the good offices of one of the old hands as interpreter when we wished to communicate with our dusky attendant.

It may here be of interest to describe more minutely the scene of our incarceration. Kilimatinde is the name of a district situated in the centre of the Colony; it is considerably above sea-level, and the climate is quite tolerable all the year round. In the winter—that is, during what corresponds to our English summer months—the weather is very pleasant, and not at all unduly hot. Indeed, many people used to wear European clothing. This is also the dry season, when all vegetation disappears and the landscape presents a most bare and desolate aspect, which it retains until the magic touch of the rains summons it once more to life. The wet seasons are known locally as the small and the large rains; the former occurring usually in December, and the latter in February and March. The place in which we were confined was known as the Kilimatinde Boma. Boma is a [72] Swahili word signifying fortress or stronghold. It was very solidly built of stone, and roofed with corrugated iron. The walls were whitewashed, and the roofs painted red. The buildings were all two-storied, the living-rooms on the first floor, and the ground floor given up entirely to offices, store-rooms, kitchens, etc. This is the usual arrangement in the tropics, and it affords a certain immunity from snakes and other unwelcome intruders—including mosquitoes. Even in Kilimatinde one is not free from the latter, and in the wet season they become a perfect pest. Fortunately they are not of the malaria-bearing type.

The Boma had been built as a residence for the local district officials, and as the headquarters of the Schutztruppe—the native levies, officered by Europeans, and used to keep order among the more turbulent tribes. The “Wagogos,” who live in the plain below, used to be very difficult to manage, and as late as ’95 there was a widespread revolt against German rule, which was only suppressed after much trouble, and by the usual Teutonic methods of “blood and iron.”

A high and strong stone wall encloses the buildings, having at each corner a raised platform on which a machine-gun can be mounted. The place could make but a slight resistance against troops armed with even light artillery, but for protection against a native rising should be quite efficient. Its only serious defect is that there is no well within the enclosure, and all water has to be procured from one half-way down a hill. A small [73] blockhouse commanding the approach to the well is built on the top of the hill, but all the same the question of water-supply might become a vital one in the event of a siege, and during our captivity a large reservoir was built in the grounds to collect rain-water for use in an emergency.

However, I have heard that when our troops approached, the only opposition they met with was at Saranda station, and along the road to the Boma—the place itself not being defended at all.

The Askari stronghold, composed of lath and mud huts, is, with the exception of the native hospital and dispensary, the only building of importance outside the encircling wall.

It will be remembered that we possessed no clothes save what we stood up in, and since in these we had lived, and slept, and marched, and sweated for several days and nights, the question of a change clamoured urgently for consideration. So, a day or two after our arrival, we went to Kommandant Oberleutenant Colzau, and informing him of our plight, asked if we could be provided with at least one change of raiment. He agreed that something must be done in the matter, and told us to make out a list of things we required.

Colzau was quite a decent man; he spoke English well, and before the war had been an officer of the D.O.A. Line, and captain of the steamer Koenig , to which reference has already been made. He had often been to Bombay, and when we came to know him better we used to tell him that when the Colony was captured it was to [74] Bombay that he would be sent, and we promised to see that he had plenty of whisky and a good time. Then he would laugh and say: “But you have not got the Colony yet, and the war will be over before you take it.”

In due course our clothing arrived. It consisted of two suits of khaki for each of us, together with a pair of boots each, a sufficient supply of underclothing, towels, etc., and a safety-razor apiece. The latter looked typical “made in Germany” articles, and I was surprised to see that they were labelled “British,” though I forget the name of the supposed manufacturers. When we tried to shave with these things we found them quite useless, and after a few futile and painful experiments we gave up the attempt and decided to grow beards.

The bill for all these things was also forwarded, and we should not have objected to paying it had we had the money, but we had not a brass farthing between us. So again we went to the Kommandant, and in the time-honoured phrase pointed out to him the impossibility of getting blood from a stone. He quite saw our point, and we heard no more about it.

I had, of course, told the other inmates of the Boma that I was expecting to be released very shortly, but they one and all received this statement with the most disconcerting scepticism! The general impression seemed to be that, the Germans having got me safely in Kilimatinde, there they would keep me, promise or no promise! It proved correct; but at first I was still hopeful, and a fortnight having elapsed during which I was treated exactly like the other prisoners, and there being no hint of my prospective freedom, I went one morning to the Kommandant’s office and said boldly:

“Your release! What do you mean?” Then he began to laugh. “Why,” he cried, “you have not been here long yet. Are you tired of it already?”

Germans, even the best of them, (and as I have said, Colzau was not really a bad chap), have a sort of sneering false bonhomie of manner which grates badly on an Englishman’s nerves and temper. Taking a strong pull on my patience and self-control, [76] I pointed out that I was a doctor and a non-combatant, and that it was contrary to the Geneva Convention that I should be held a prisoner. Further, that I had been assured repeatedly that I should be released as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made.

Then he said: “Well, I have heard nothing about it, but if you care to write to the Governor, I will forward your letter.”

A bit cast down, but not yet devoid of hope, I repaired to my room to compose a diplomatic letter, which was duly forwarded to the Governor.

Followed three weeks of weary waiting, during which I perpetually haunted the office to enquire if an answer had arrived. Then one morning the Kommandant sent for me and told me he had received an answer to my letter. According to this I was informed that I could not claim under the Geneva Convention to be exempt from imprisonment, since when captured I had been a member of a hostile raiding party, and there was no evidence to prove that I had taken part in that raid solely with a view to caring for sick and wounded.

Further, it was stated that the British had captured a German medical officer on the Nyassaland border, and that he had not been released, and therefore, so long as their medical officer was held prisoner, the Germans intended to keep me.

I asked if I might have a copy of the letter, but this was refused, and in all the subsequent correspondence the same rule was observed. I used to write direct to the Governor, and the answer always came to the Kommandant of the prison-camp, who informed me of its purport, but never allowed me to see the actual letter, much less have a copy of it.

As may be well imagined, I was greatly depressed by this blow to my cherished dream of liberty, but I still hoped for an exchange in the near future. It was not until about six months later that, in conversation with one of the mission nursing sisters, I, having alluded to this circumstance and the hopes I had based on it, learned from her that while nursing some of our wounded in one of the German hospitals she had met the German doctor in question and spoken with him. She was quite positive as to the facts, for she said he had told her all details of how and where he was taken prisoner, and how he had been subsequently released.

On the strength of her statement I again wrote to the Governor, asking why I had not been exchanged. The composition of this letter cost me a lot of trouble, for it had to be in German. After my first communication with the Governor I had been informed that German was the only language allowed in official correspondence. However, I did not intend to allow them to muzzle me so easily as that, and as some of my fellow-prisoners were good German scholars, I got them to give me lessons, and [78] soon managed to gain a fair knowledge of the language.

The answer received to this letter was to the effect that an Indian medical man, a native, who had been captured at Tanga, had been exchanged for the German in question, and that my services were considered unentbehrlich (indispensable) for the welfare of the prisoners at Kilimatinde! This was pretty cool, but I could not dispute the argument, since I knew that there was no German doctor nearer than Morogoro or Tabora, both about twelve hours distant by rail, and consequently I had perforce been looking after the health of the interned as best I could with the aid of the small stock of drugs I found at the native dispensary. This was another blow to my optimism, and it seemed that nothing remained but to face the situation with as much philosophy as might be. But I did not see why I should be, as expressed in the vernacular of the domestic servant, “put upon” more than was absolutely unavoidable, so once more I wrote, stating that I was willing to look after the military prisoners, but that I considered that I was clearly entitled to some remuneration for attending the interned civilians, who had no claim on my gratuitous services other than that of bare humanity. The answer to this was that while the German Government saw no reason why they should pay me, there was no objection to my charging a fee to civilians, and if I cared to do so, they, the Government, would see that it was paid. However, in view of the fact that these same civilians [79] were my fellow-sufferers and companions in misfortune, it seemed to me that it would be a violation of all the traditions of my profession to agree to this mean-spirited and Shylock-like proposal.

This narrative would be incomplete without some further reference to the officials placed in authority over us, for it will be readily understood how largely the (comparative) comfort and well-being of captives depends on the disposition of their gaolers, whose good feeling or otherwise make “ la pluie et le beau temps ” for their prisoners. On the whole, I think we could consider ourselves fairly fortunate in respect of the personnel of the prison camp.

In addition to the Kommandant, of whom enough has been said, there was Rickert, our little corporal, but officially he had not much to do with the prisoners, being concerned solely with the training and drilling of his Askaris. He was quite a kind-hearted fellow, who spoke practically no English; but he was anxious to learn, and used to take lessons from one of the German-speaking prisoners. With the exception of the Kommandant Rickert was the only German who actually lived within the Boma, and he had a room next to the dining-hall. Often he would beckon one or two of us into his room and offer a drink—and this, too, when drinks were getting scarce and difficult to get. He was also a very efficient officer, keeping his Askaris smart and up to the mark; and, moreover, he insisted on upholding the supremacy of the white [80] race, and woe betide any Askari who ventured to treat a prisoner discourteously when under his rule. But before long he was ordered to the front, and he seemed to have a foreboding that he would never return, for he packed up all his belongings, and got our camera expert to take a photograph of him to send to his girl in Germany. Alas! his presentiment was correct, for very soon after his departure we heard that he had been shot through the head while leading his men in a charge.... Poor, gallant little corporal! His gay, harmless life crushed out like so many thousands of others in the grip of that awful war-machine set in motion by the lustful leaders of Prussian military autocracy. What did he care for “world conquest”?

And now it was all finished—as he might himself have said—“ Kaput! ” It is true that in theory he was an enemy, but we knew him to be at heart a real little gentleman, and I think there was not one of us but mourned for him.

Derndorf, another of the officials, was in every way the antithesis of our little corporal, for he was a typical Prussian bully. We used to call him the “Anteater” by reason of his long nose, which gave him a marked resemblance to “little Willie,” the German Crown Prince, and I have reason to believe that he was very proud of the likeness! In civil life I think this man was a planter, but in the army [81] he was only a private. However, when in January Kilimatinde was getting overcrowded, he was given a stripe—no doubt with the intention of investing him with a greater halo of authority—and sent in charge of seven of the civilian prisoners to Kiboriani, in the hills near Kilossa, where a new camp was established. We were very pleased to be rid of him, but pitied those who were going to be under his rule. Although I never visited the camp in question, I believe that the “Anteater” was as rude and severe as possible to the unfortunates under his charge.

Another portrait in my memory’s picture-gallery is that of a big blond man with a bushy moustache brushed out on either side of his face and waving in the breeze. This was “Sloppy Joe,” sometimes known as “Soapy Joe.” I have forgotten his real name, and I do not know exactly why he had been given his nicknames—but they seemed to suit him. He was a rather negative personality, and not, I think, a bad chap. His most salient characteristic was a great slowness and deliberacy of movement; no one ever saw him in a hurry.

The catering for the prisoners was undertaken by a certain Frau Mahnke, the wife of a planter in the district. She did not live in the Boma, but as a rule came in once or twice a week to see that everything was satisfactory. She engaged a Frau Brusch to do the cooking and supervise the issue of stores, etc. There was not much actual cooking to be done, as the meat, no matter what it might be, [82] was always boiled. We got very tired of that boiled meat, which, even so, was not sent up as a joint, but cut into lumps and served up a lump to each person. However, since there were no facilities for roasting joints for such a crowd as we were, one must conclude that Frau Brusch did her best according to her lights, and with no deliberate intention of restricting us to unappetising food.

Herr Mahnke, although he had no official status, sometimes put in an appearance, and “made a bit” by ordering beer and spirits for such of us as had money to pay for these luxuries. The miners were his best customers; but his little trade did not last long, as stocks in the Colony began to run low, and shortly after Christmas an order was issued that no alcohol should be brought into the Boma without the permission of the Kommandant. In part we attributed this to an unseemly incident, in which the prisoners were in no way to blame.

About Christmas-time the postmaster was entertained by Mahnke to supper in the Boma. They both imbibed very freely, and as, being a very hot night, their table was set in the open, the prisoners from their windows were presented with a very unedifying spectacle. In the end the two became fighting-drunk, and the postmaster, announcing his intention of fighting one of the “pig-dog” Britishers, stumbled up the steps to the verandah outside our dining-room, and squared up to the Major, who was peacefully playing bridge. Mahnke followed, trying to dissuade his compatriot from his bellicose intentions, and they both made such a row [83] that the sound thereof reached the ears of the Kommandant, who was enjoying a post-prandial cigar on his own baraza . He came in person to see what was the cause of the disturbance, and Mahnke and the postmaster, valiant in wine, began to insult him! Then, although my German was not at the time sufficient to enable me to appreciate quite all they said to each other, there was a proper row. The little corporal turned out to support his superior officer, and finally the brawlers were bundled down the steps and locked in the post-office, where they continued to rage until either they were exhausted or the fumes of alcohol were gradually dissipated.

The next morning the postmaster was made to apologise to the Major, and in a few days he disappeared from the Boma, and another reigned in his stead. As for Mahnke, he was forbidden to show his face in the Boma for many months to come.

By the way, I think I have not yet introduced the Major. He had retired from the army after the South African War, during which he fought with Thorneycroft’s Horse, and won the D.S.O., and he was on a bicycling tour through a part of Africa when he was captured.

To return to routine.... We were allowed to walk outside the prison precincts for an hour every evening, and to this hour we all eagerly looked forward, since the space at our disposal within the encircling wall was very limited. There was a certain line beyond which we were not supposed to [84] go, and so long as we kept within it we were in sight of the Boma. We had no guard, one of the German officials alone accompanying us, and he would generally sit down a little distance off with a cigar and a book, while we were free to do as we liked. He was in the position of a shepherd watching his flock, his only duty to see we did not wander beyond bounds. I was much surprised to find that no roll-call was taken; all those who wished to go out assembled in the courtyard after tea, then the gate was opened, and out we went. When time was up the gate was again opened, we passed in, and so straight to our rooms or wherever we wished.

That hour in the open would not, I think, have proved very alluring to free men. In December the landscape was bare and dreary-looking, all trees and bushes leafless; not a blade of grass was to be found, and the only green thing in sight was a patch of cacti growing on a hillside. Elsewhere only sandy earth and grey rocks and boulders.... Some of us amused ourselves by turning over the smaller boulders and hunting for scorpions; the small greenish-yellow kind were very common, and sometimes we came across one of the big black fellows who would give us quite a lot of sport before he was transferred to the killing-bottle. A scorpion carries his sting in his tail, and with it can inflict a very painful wound, which frequently causes fever. It is said that the sting of a large scorpion has proved fatal to a child.

Our catch sometimes included centipedes; these are also able to inflict a very nasty wound by [85] digging all their sharp claw-like feet into the flesh. The best way to make them release their hold is to run the glowing end of a cigarette along their backs. There is no use in trying to wrench them out, for in that case their poisonous feet are left in the flesh, and severe inflammation, and even in extreme cases death, may result.

Another of our discoveries was a curious spider armed with formidable jaws, resembling in form a bird’s beak. These lurked under stones, and were very swift in their movements. Once one of these spiders and a small scorpion were put in a bottle together, and a battle-royal ensued. The spider won because he seized the scorpion by the under side of the thorax, and thus prevented it from bringing its sting into action.

During December we had the “small rains,” which in 1914 were very small indeed, and it was but rarely that we were prevented from going out. A short dry spell followed, and at the end of January the large rains began. These were of the true tropical variety, such as have been so often described. They came down in solid streams of such volume that the water lay inches deep in all depressions in the ground, and anyone who happened to be caught in them was soaked to the skin in a very few minutes.

The small stock of tobacco I had with me when I was captured was very soon exhausted, and the problem of how to get more became an urgent one, for smoking was our greatest solace. The other prisoners, some of whom had comparatively large stores, were very generous, and we tried to be as economical as possible, but the stock steadily dwindled, and by the middle of 1915 real European tobacco was a rarity, and we were reduced to smoking the native product. This was made up into pats weighing not quite a kilo each, and apparently prepared by putting the dried leaves into a mortar with a little water, pounding them almost to a pulp, and then pressing into cakes. The water used was very muddy, and the finished product was consequently full of grit. We used to wash it, and then dry it again, before attempting to smoke it. It had a curious, indescribable flavour, and a really abominable smell, but luckily the latter was not noticed by the smoker, only by those in his vicinity! One of the missionaries was the first to try it, and when I smelt the unspeakable aroma I vowed nothing would induce me to use the stuff! But when, for lack of decent tobacco, I had [87] abstained from smoking for nearly a month, the craving became so imperative that I decided to try it. By the time I had managed to get through one pipeful I was of the opinion that if not exactly pleasant it was tolerable, and in the end all the smokers used it. Such is the force of habit, that I personally came quite to like it. It was retailed at a rupee a pat, and the small native shop which supplied the village soon sold out and had to import more from Tabora.

For my after-dinner cigarette I was for a long time dependent on the missionary who sat at my table. His was not the type of cigarette to which we are accustomed at home. The brand was called “Palm Tree,” and made in South Africa—I believe for native consumption. They were very strong and reminded me of Brazilians. But soon the supply of these, too, was exhausted, and none of any description could be obtained until the Greeks, of whom there were many in the Colony, started the manufacture of cigarettes made from the native tobacco with a small admixture of Turkish. Of this latter there was a limited supply, also grown in the Colony, and they had obtained the monopoly. The “fags” were not bad, but rather expensive, costing five rupees a hundred; and later, when the better-class tobacco was becoming exhausted, the price rose to ten, and even twelve rupees. It is said the Greeks made quite a lot of money out of this business.

I have stated that we all four arrived at Kilimatinde quite penniless, and the reader will be [88] wondering where we obtained the money to pay for our small luxuries.... I must confess that (Oh, shades of the Nonconformist conscience!) we made it by gambling ! The miners and some of the planters used to play poker of an evening, and for some time we were content to look on. Then one day S—— borrowed some money and took a hand, and he was so successful that by bedtime he was able, not only to repay the loan, but to retain a good balance. Fired by this tempting example, the next evening we all borrowed from him and hurled ourselves into the fray. Luckily, from our first venture we all emerged a little to the good, and thereafter, although we had occasional reverses, our fortunes never really looked back. If any of our syndicate had a bad night and lost, it became the custom to chastise him in various ways—and this helped to make us careful!

Our first Christmas in captivity was, from the point of food, not so bad; and let me here beg of the reader to try and realise the enormous importance to the captive of that particular point of view. Free men and women have such a multiplicity of interests and occupations that it would indeed be shameful for them to attach undue significance to mealtimes. Then, too, they can go out to a Club or a restaurant, and there order what they fancy, or they may plan with an expert cook a dainty menu for the celebration of some special occasion; but think how different is the case of the prisoner and exonerate us from the charge of gluttony.

On the 25th of December, then, Frau Mahnke bestirred herself and provided us with quite a good midday meal, at least it was satisfying, and in the evening we had our own special spread. Most of the planters had saved up some of the tinned delicacies which they had brought with them from their homes, and we officers were invited to dine with W—— and his party. A table lighted with small Christmas-tree candles, and decorated with the purple bloom of Bougainvillia, was, in honour of the occasion, set out in the baraza . Mrs. W——, the only lady of our party, had put on an evening gown, and some of the men had dress-suits, but we had to content ourselves with our khaki. As there was no gin or sherry available, nips of whisky had to serve as an aperitif . Then for dinner there was cold chicken, with pickles and potato salad; one of Huntley and Palmer’s cakes took the place of plum-pudding or mince-pies, and cold sardines formed a savoury. Not much of a Christmas dinner, perhaps, but if the fare was scanty we brought the true festive spirit to the board, and the drinks were above reproach. We had two bottles of champagne, one of Dom, and one of whisky!

Frau Mahnke had solemnly promised us a Christmas pudding, and we had expected it to be served up at the midday meal; but as it did not then materialise, we looked for it in the evening. But that pudding took us all by surprise! It turned up—served cold in slices like cake—on the tea -table, of all places! All the same, it was not half bad plum-duff.

In January, 1915, a fresh prisoner arrived. This was the airman, C——, who had been captured in the Rufigi River. While flying over the delta for the purpose of ascertaining the position of the Königsberg , his engine failed and he was forced to descend in the river. Since his machine was a seaplane that fact did not trouble him much, as he hoped to get his engine going again in a very short time. Unfortunately he came down just opposite a place on the bank where the Germans had mounted some machine-guns, and, spotting him, they at once opened fire. The first few shots punctured the petrol-tank, which rendered him helpless, and the current carried him slowly but surely in towards the shore, so that at last he was forced to wave his handkerchief in token of surrender, and a seaman waded out and took him prisoner. But the Huns did not get the machine, for one of our ships at the mouth of the river had seen the descent and sent in a steamboat to render aid. Its crew kept the enemy off by gunfire, and managed to salve the seaplane.

When C—— arrived at Kilimatinde he was received just as we had been, with eager demands for news, in which we joined, for since our capture [91] not a word of what was going on in the outside world had reached us. But, alas! he had nothing of much importance to tell us, and we were especially disappointed to learn that as yet no great offensive had been started in the Colony.

On the 23rd of February yet another prisoner arrived. This was Lieut. P——, of the R.N.R., who had also been captured in the Rufigi. On February 6th, in charge of an armed launch, he had gone up the river to test the strength of the German posts and defences on its banks. He had only gone a little way when the Huns opened fire, and, putting the helm hard over, he turned the launch round with a view to retiring in accordance with his instructions. A shot hit the vessel in the stern and jammed the steering-gear. Under a hot fire the crew laboured to free it, but without success, and they could move neither ahead nor astern, but only spin round and round. Though they tried going ahead and astern alternately, they could not manage to draw out of range, and the guns on the beach were so well masked that our men could not return their fire with any effect. In the end they ran aground, and being subjected to a hail of bullets, nothing remained for them but to raise the white flag.

Several of the crew were wounded, but eventually recovered, and one who was killed outright was buried on the banks of the Rufigi. Later I was shown a photograph of his grave which had been taken by a German; it was marked with a little wooden cross.

The launch was riddled with shots, and I heard that next day one of our ships blew a great hole in her stern with the object of making her useless to the enemy; but some months afterwards a German told me with great glee that they had succeeded in salving her all the same, and that she had been taken in sections to Lake Tanganyka. This seemed to me rather a tall story, and I cannot vouch for its truth. Lieut. P—— was the only prisoner brought to Kilimatinde; his men were interned as ours had been at Tabora.

February was an eventful month at the Boma, for on the 26th it was discovered that the Major had escaped, and great excitement prevailed. It has already been described how we were allowed out for exercise after tea, no particular tally of numbers being taken either on our going forth or coming in. I had noticed that the Major always carried a cushion with him, and in my innocence imagined he used it to sit on. But it now appeared that the cushion had a loose cover in which he contrived to smuggle out small quantities of food, chiefly rice and dried meat. Some of us had commented on his enormous appetite, and wondered how he could manage to consume such quantities of rice, but it never dawned on us that he was storing the stuff with deliberate purpose. Even though he used to have talks with me on dietetics, with especial regard to the relative values of food, and the amount of rice or other comestible needed to sustain a man for twenty-four hours, I never suspected his intention.

The food once safely smuggled out, he used to hide it in some bushes, which being now in leaf afforded very good cover. Then a day came when, having gone out with us as usual, the Major never returned. One or two noted his absence, but they made no remark, and the majority were still quite unconscious of it. It was not until the middle of the next day that the Germans discovered his flight, and even then I believe it would have been unnoticed had not one of the native boys reported him as missing. The fellows in his room had tumbled his bed to make it look as if it had been slept in, so the boy had to make it as usual that morning, and in his absence from breakfast there was nothing very unusual, as he had for some time been irregular in his attendance at meals and often missed breakfast altogether. Evidently he had done this with the deliberate intention of putting the boys off the scent. However, one of them more alert than the rest noticed his absence from the midday meal, went in search of him, and the search being unavailing, reported to the Germans that he was nowhere to be found. Our first intimation of his flight came after dinner, when two of the German guards came round and looked into every room.

I and three others were playing bridge at the time, and we looked up in surprise at the unusual intrusion. But the guards merely glanced keenly around and then went out muttering to themselves, and as they had not said for what they were searching, I concluded they were only on a tour of [94] inspection. However, a few minutes later the Askari guard was turned out and assembled in the courtyard just below our window, and, being able to overhear all that was said, we soon realised what had happened. Eight Askaris were chosen, and thirty rounds of ammunition served out to each man. Then they were instructed to scour the country in different directions, and if they should meet the Major they were to call upon him to stand and surrender. If he did not obey they were to challenge him again, and if he still refused they were to shoot him in the legs; if he showed fight he was to be shot through the head. But, above all, if any Askari came up with the fugitive he was not to return to the Boma without bringing him in, dead or alive.

We spent the rest of that day in discussing the Major’s chances of eventual escape, and we came to the optimistic conclusion that they were pretty good. He already had a fair start; he was used to African travel and could find his way in the bush—though nearly fifty he was fit and in fair condition; and we reckoned he would not have started without enough food to make him independent of the natives until he was well beyond the danger-zone. But it would mean a long tramp to the border—about three hundred miles.

For the next two days there was no news of him, and the Askaris returned after a fruitless search. The other Bomas and all the natives round had been warned to keep a sharp look-out, but since no trace had been reported we began to hope that he had [95] successfully evaded all traps and was well on the way to the frontier.

Of course, we had all been “gated” as soon as the escape was discovered, but we did not care a rap for that. All the men in his room were severely cross-examined, and also every one of us who might possibly have any knowledge, but our gaolers were unable to glean any particulars, or find the remotest trace of a conspiracy.

Then, alas! on March 2nd, four days after his bold bid for liberty, news arrived at the Boma that our comrade had been captured in a native village about eight hours’ march away.... We were frightfully downcast. “Sloppy Joe” and half a dozen Askaris were sent off to bring him in, and the party returned the next morning. None of us were allowed in the courtyard, but we watched the arrival from our windows, and were relieved to see that the Major was walking, for we feared he might have tried to put up a fight and been badly injured, and should not have been surprised to see him brought back on a stretcher. However, since he was able to walk there could not be much amiss, although even from a distance we could see that his face was bruised and discoloured, and his clothing much torn.

Next day he asked to see a doctor, and I was taken into his cell. It appeared that in a scrimmage with the natives who took him prisoner he had sustained a broken rib, and this I fixed up for him; but as the Kommandant, who knew English, was present all the time, I had no chance to question [96] him about his experiences. However, although he was not allowed out of his cell, thereafter I saw him daily, and in spite of the fact that one of the guards was almost invariably present, we at length managed to get in some brief conversations, and bit by bit I learned how it was that he had not succeeded in his enterprise. It would appear that he had miscalculated the effect of the February rains and had not allowed sufficient time for the water to subside; consequently he found himself held up by impassable swamps in places where he had anticipated no obstacle. This resulted in his having to retrace his steps over ground already traversed in order to try another route, so he had not been able to get out of the danger area around the Boma as soon as he had hoped. One night, almost before he was aware of it, he found himself walking into a native village. Putting a bold face on the matter, he went up to one of the huts to ask the way. As ill-luck would have it, two of our Askaris were in the village in plain clothes, and the Major did not spot them, but he soon noticed that there was much excited whispering going on, and the natives began closing around him in a manner distinctly threatening and hostile. For a little while he managed to face them and keep them at bay, but suddenly he became aware that someone was creeping up behind him. Swinging round, he knocked down the man who had been about to seize him, and then there was a regular rough-and-tumble; but in the end he was overcome by sheer weight of numbers. The natives brought hide-thongs [97] and bound him so tightly that the bonds cut into his flesh and he could hardly breathe. Trussed up in this fashion, he was held until the escort arrived, and even then “Sloppy Joe” would only allow the bonds to be loosened; they were not finally removed until the party were almost in sight of the Boma. When I saw him he still bore marks of that brutal binding on his arms and legs.

A most disagreeable-looking official arrived to preside at the Major’s trial. His name was French, I believe; he was a tall man, very pale, with a cruel-looking mouth and shifty eyes.

The trial lasted for several days, and resulted in the prisoner being condemned to two months’ solitary confinement, his diet for part of the time being restricted to bread and water. But as all the evidence had to be examined in Morogoro, and he was kept in the cell until his case was decided, the period of his captivity was in reality much longer than that indicated in the sentence. In all he was what under the circumstances one might call a super-prisoner from March 3rd until May 21st.

When he was captured, a revolver and ammunition were found in the Major’s possession, and the Germans were mightily puzzled to imagine how and where he could have obtained either the one or the other. He naturally refused to answer any questions on the subject, and they did not believe it possible that the weapon could have been secreted in any of the prisoners’ boxes, as these had been [98] regularly and thoroughly searched. In the past, when such searches were being conducted, all prisoners were assembled in the courtyard as though for a roll-call, and were kept standing there while some of the guards went through their boxes. If one of these was found locked, its owner was called up and had to empty it in the presence of the guard. A sequel to the Major’s escapade was that thenceforward, to facilitate search, and to prevent us from making use of any provisions or spare clothing, an order was issued that all boxes were to be locked up in the baggage store, and we were only allowed to keep out two suits, a change of underwear, one pair of boots or shoes, and one hat or helmet. The store was opened only on two days in the week, and then we were allowed access to our baggage; but everything that was taken out was carefully scrutinised by the German in charge, and before a pair of boots—or, indeed, any article of clothing—could be removed, a corresponding article had to be replaced.

In the matter of the revolver suspicion fell upon the Indian traders in the village, and these wretched men were hauled up before the court and bullyingly interrogated, while their shops and houses were searched. But it was never discovered where the weapon came from, nor did they succeed in finding its pair.

A little later all our camp-beds were commandeered for the use of the Germans in the field, [99] and native ones were provided to replace them. Those of the prisoners whose beds were their own property were required to give them up to the German Government. They were told that they would be paid a fair price, but no option was allowed in the matter. If anyone refused to sell his bed it was calmly confiscated. All the tin boxes were requisitioned in the same way, and we were given wooden packing-cases in which to keep our belongings. The Government decided the price to be paid for every article commandeered. Water-bottles were among the first things thus to be removed from our possession.

On March 6th a new prisoner arrived, an Englishman who had been taken in the fighting on the Congo border. When war broke out he was working in the Congo, and had promptly offered his services to the Belgians. When captured he was not in uniform, and consequently he was for a long time regarded by the Germans with grave suspicion; in fact, it was a question whether he should not be shot as a franc tireur . However, this did not seem to trouble him much, and in the end his explanation that he had been out shooting game and plunged straightway into the fighting on his return to camp, was accepted. He was a most extraordinary chap—a real adventurer. He gave us some wonderful accounts of all that had been happening in the outside world, and at first his confirmed optimism did much to raise our flagging spirits; but at last he rather over-reached himself, and we began to question his veracity. In the end I fear we discredited almost everything he told us, and he became known as “Baron Munchausen,” or “the Baron,” for short. He interested me a good deal, for he was a regular rolling stone, and seemed to have knocked about all over the world—the type of man who always manages just to make [101] a living but is incapable of steady work or sustained effort. At one moment he would be rioting with pockets full of gold, but this being speedily dissipated, in a few weeks he would again be penniless and begging for any job he could get. As to his family, they had either disowned him or he had disowned them, for apparently he had not heard of or from them for years, and his home was just the place where he happened to be for the moment. I had many yarns with him, and found that he knew Shanghai better than I did myself.

Del Luigi is another of our number who stands out in my memory by reason of his originality. An Italian living in Nairobi, he had joined the British Force as a motor-mechanic in the early days of the war, and had been ambushed on the British East Africa frontier. His account of the struggle the Askaris had with his motor-bike was very amusing. It would seem that the German in charge of the patrol which had captured him knew nothing of motors, and he ordered his Askaris to wheel the machine into camp. This they attempted, but the clutch being still in, they found the job almost more than they could manage! In reply to impatient questions Luigi said the cycle was always hard to push, and, with the most innocent face imaginable, offered to ride it in! But the German was far too cautious a bird to fall into that trap, and so the wretched Askaris, grunting and sweating, had to practically carry the heavy machine the whole way into camp!

Luigi had been one of the occupants of the Major’s room, and was consequently under suspicion. On March 18th he was seen waving to the captive and shouting a few words of encouragement. For this heinous crime he was promptly put under arrest, and after a brief trial in the office, condemned to three days’ confinement on a diet of bread and water. Shortly after he had been locked in his cell he set up the most awful row, kicking at the door as if he would break it down. Müller, one of the guards, went to investigate, and anticipating some fun, we all hung out of our windows to listen. The only language common to them both was Kiswahili, and in this they conversed. Luigi began mildly enough, but as the tale of his complaints went on, his voice rose in gradually-increasing crescendo until he was shouting at the full pitch of his lungs: “ Hapana chakula! Hapana kitanda! Hapana kiti! Hapana maji! Hapana kitu! Shenzi! Nom de Dieu! ”

Now, this being interpreted, means, “No food, no bed, no chair, no water. Nothing!” Shenzi —uncultivated boor—a term of opprobrium or insult much in use among the natives.

Müller, red in the face, retired beaten by this torrent of invective! Luigi got his bed, a mug of water, and the rest. But he also got his sentence extended to a week!

For some time after the Major’s attempted escape all the prisoners were confined to the Boma, and were not allowed outside its precincts even under guard. We (the officers) were especially [103] annoyed by this restriction, for, having given our parole not to attempt to escape, we expected, and were entitled to a certain amount of liberty: the said parole laid us under greater penalties in the event of its being broken than applied to those who had not pledged their word. So I wrote to the Governor, pointing out that since we had been in no way implicated in the Major’s bid for liberty, we were undoubtedly entitled to preferential treatment, for if the Germans would not trust us they should not have asked for or accepted our parole, but simply have put us on the same footing as ordinary prisoners.

After a short interval an order came through that we should be allowed to resume our walks, and thus on Easter Sunday we recovered our comparative liberty.

It was indeed a treat to get outside that Boma again, and I marvelled at the transformation the rains had worked in the surrounding country. The plateau was knee-deep in grasses and herbs, and the slope of the hill down to the plain was almost unrecognisable. All the trees and bushes were in full leaf, and where previously there had been only bare brown earth now stretched a thick carpet of flowering plants. I wished that my knowledge of botany was more extensive, for I came across several, to me, botanical curiosities. The air was alive with butterflies of every shape and colour, and I straightway became an amateur entomologist, made a net, and started collecting, although I could not name the specimens I caught. However, all [104] that were perfect I preserved, and stored them away in a tin with some naphthaline which I was lucky enough to find in the dispensary, and I continued to add to my collection at intervals during the rest of my imprisonment.

That spring there were many cases of malaria among us—which goes to prove that Kilimatinde is not free from the fever-bearing Anopheles, although the insects are not numerous. Culicinæ, on the other hand, swarmed after the rains, and became such a pest that in the evenings we were driven to wrap our legs in rugs as a protection from their attack. These mosquitoes were quite able to bite through one’s socks, but it usually defeated them if two pairs were worn. We were all provided with mosquito-curtains, but notwithstanding that precaution we all managed to get infected. I had my first attack in April. The experience might have been a valuable one for a medical man, for I had many cases to treat, but since I had no microscope and could not succeed in obtaining one, my diagnosis had to be made clinically, and thus I was robbed of a very favourable opportunity for a little study and research. However, I made full use of the licence allowed me in visiting the native dispensary, and here made friends with the native hospital attendant—Saidi by name, to whom was entrusted the care of the Askaris and the native population. He was a fairly intelligent specimen of his race, and quite capable of treating ordinary cases of fever, etc.

The stock of quinine in the Colony was very [105] small, but the Germans proved themselves good chemists in that they started the manufacture of the drug. The Chinchona tree is not indigenous to Africa, but before the war some specimens had been planted at an experimental plantation somewhere in the Colony—I think it was at a place called Amani—and when the reserves of the European article began to run out they started stripping the bark off these trees and extracting the alkaloid, from which they eventually made tablets, and I was given some for the use of my patients. They were much larger than those to which we are accustomed, and as they were less highly concentrated it was necessary to give a bigger dose. These tablets were reserved for the use of the white men only; the native patients were treated with a solution called Chinoidin, in which the amount of active alkaloid was comparatively small.

As a result of the official investigation following on the Major’s escapade, several drastic changes were made in the camp routine. Prisoners were now required to attend a roll-call in the courtyard at 6.45 a.m. (before breakfast), only officers being exempted, and no one was allowed out of their rooms after 7.30 p.m., at which hour all lights were extinguished. At 8.30 p.m. the guard came on a round of inspection, when we all had to be in our own rooms and standing by our beds. Further, it was decided that the prisoners were too comfortable, so all the “boys” were removed, with the [106] exception only of two kept to wait upon officers, and, of course, the cook-boys who worked for Frau Mahnke. Thenceforward all prisoners had to make their own beds, clean their own rooms, fetch their food from the kitchen, and wash up after meals.

Not even to the women or the missionaries was any consideration shown. In a European country this would not have mattered very much, but in Africa, where even the poorest white has one or two native servants, the effect was to seriously lower British prestige and to give the natives the impression that we were a conquered and inferior race, and this, doubtless, is exactly what the Germans intended.

Frau Mahnke’s contract for feeding the prisoners was also altered, and the food reduced both in quantity and variety. The new scale which came into operation on May 1st, 1915, was as follows: for breakfast, coffee and bread, with either a scrap of butter and one boiled egg, or a portion of cold meat; for the midday meal, meat with boiled rice, or dried beans, or potatoes—but the latter, which appeared only at rare intervals, were boiled in their skins and consisted of the smallest of the crop, such as at home are used for feeding pigs. The last and final meal was at six in the evening, and consisted of bread with cold meat or cheese, and either soup or coffee. We much preferred the coffee, for the soup was like nothing in the world but dish-water! The meat, whether hot or cold, was always boiled, and always tough, [107] the latter being due to the poor quality of the cattle, and the fact that the meat had to be used on the day it was killed, as it would not keep. Hot or cold, it was equally nasty, and our staple diet seemed to be boiled rice, which came to table in a sodden mass, and only the pangs of hunger enabled us to swallow it. We never had a rice-pudding, but when possible we used to buy native sugar or wild honey to help the rice down. The beans, which appeared almost as often, were a kind of haricot or dried bean, and they were boiled until soft—or at least supposed to be soft. Many people dislike them even more than the rice, but I preferred them, for in my opinion they at least contained more nutriment. The butter was half butter-milk; it was served only at breakfast, and then in such absurdly small quantities that it was only by the greatest economy that we could manage to save any for our tea or supper.

When the afternoon meal was suspended it became the general practice to save some bread and butter to eat about 4 p.m., when the pangs of hunger became insistent. The kitchen was locked after dinner was over, but a fire was usually kept burning in another small kitchen beneath the Kommandant’s quarters, and the members of each mess used to take it in turns to go down there, make up the fire, and heat the coffee. But later, for some reason which we never could fathom, this place was ordered to be kept locked too, and so most of the prisoners had to drink their coffee cold, [108] and since we had no milk, and sugar was far too precious to squander unnecessarily, it was but poor comfort.

Shortly before all these irritating restrictions came into force we officers had been moved to a different part of the Boma, and we now occupied a sort of small flat over the post-office. It comprised two rooms, and was reached by an outside stair leading up to a small verandah which faced east. When we were debarred from using the kitchens, T—— very cleverly contrived a small stove which we used in the inner room, and whereon we managed to heat our coffee. It really answered very well, the only drawback being that the room at times got uncomfortably full of smoke, and as fires in the prisoners’ rooms were not allowed, we had to be careful we were not spotted. One afternoon Müller unexpectedly came running up our staircase, and we had just time to plunge the stove bodily into a bucket of water, while one of us commenced to pull vigorously at his pipe to account for the smoky atmosphere! It is a tribute to the strength and aroma (?) of the native pat-tobacco that the guard noticed nothing unusual!

On May 2nd the arrival in camp of the Italian Consul gave us our first intimation that Italy had declared war.

In June there was great excitement, for we were informed that we might send letters to our friends, but we were also warned that we must give no news other than such as was purely personal, [109] nor mention in what part of the Colony we were interned.

That mail left Kilimatinde on June 4th, and it eventually reached its destination.

On July 11th, “the Baron,” one of our naval ratings, and a Belgian effected their escape. They got away about 9 p.m., just after the guard had completed its final round. The building in which their room was situated was built on the wall which encircled the Boma, and from their baraza it was a drop of only about fifteen feet to the ground. That safely accomplished, they had to cross an open space for about twenty yards, and then crawl through a barbed-wire fence. They were uncommonly lucky, for a sentry patrolled up and down that wall from sunset to sunrise, but on the evening in question he had gone round the corner to have a chat with the main guard at the gate, and thus it was that they got away unseen.

Their flight was not discovered until the next morning’s roll-call ... then immense excitement prevailed in the Boma! Askaris were sent flying in every direction: all the Germans were in a very bad temper, and many of the interned were called into the office to be fiercely questioned. As some of us knew all about the affair, and, indeed, had helped in the escape, we all decided that the best thing to do was to refuse to answer any questions. The result of this decision was, that although the [111] Germans had a very shrewd suspicion as to which of us were implicated, they were unable to prove anything.

The runaways had not such a long start as the Major secured, but we hoped that they might have a better chance of success, for they had decided to travel by night and lie low during the daytime, and their adventure had been timed to take full advantage of the moon.

I remember that it was just at this time that I was treating a private of the Loyal North Lancashires for a very bad attack of the deadly blackwater fever. Fortunately one of the English mission nurses was in the camp, and so the poor chap was better off than if his nursing had had to be entrusted to the rough kindness of his pals. Nevertheless, all our efforts were powerless to save him, and he died on July 13th. A rough coffin was made, and that same afternoon we buried him in the little graveyard up the hill, about a quarter of a mile from the Boma. All the prisoners were allowed (under guard) to attend the funeral, and the Kommandant himself accompanied the procession to the graveside, where the service was conducted by Archdeacon Hallett, who was among the interned missionaries. Later we were given permission to erect a monument over the grave, and as there was a skilled carpenter among us, we were able to put up a really fine cross to his memory.

As the days went by our hopes for the success of the fugitives rose higher and higher, and every evening after “Lights out” we used to sit around [112] in the brilliant rays of the full moon and speculate on their progress. It was not until the 19th—exactly eight days after their flight—that all these hopes were shattered by the news of their recapture. Late on the same afternoon they were brought in, and in time we heard the full tale of their experiences.

Once clear of the Boma, they had at first made good progress, travelling only by night, and had they stuck to this plan it is probable their enterprise would have been successful. But they came to a stretch of country where about thirty hours’ travel lay between one water-hole and the next. Thirst is a terrible enemy, especially in a hot climate, and so, in order to cover the distance between the wells in as short a time as possible, they decided to risk one cross-country march by daylight. The bush was very thick, and coming upon a native track, they followed it for a little way. This proved their undoing, for, as ill-luck would have it, they suddenly ran into a Safari proceeding from the opposite direction, and among the natives were some of Mahnke’s servants, who at once recognised and questioned them. To make a bolt was useless, for there was a small Boma in the vicinity, and on getting the alarm the Askaris would have easily tracked them down; so they made the best of a bad job, and willy-nilly joined the Safari, hoping for an opportunity to escape under cover of darkness. But this hope, too, was frustrated by the natives, who took the precaution of tying them up at night.

The “Baron,” who was regarded as the ringleader, was placed in a cell by himself, and the other two in one together. They were all put upon “low diet,” which means nothing but bread and water. Now, this would be bad enough even were the bread anything like what is known in Europe as such, but as the stuff we had at Kilimatinde was made from maize-meal and matama-flour, it was a very serious hardship indeed. Matama is a kind of millet, also known as “durra,” or Indian millet, and its combination with maize-meal resulted in a curious substance with a very hard crust and dry, crumbly interior not unlike hard sand! Indeed, I do not know with what to compare it in order to give an adequate idea of its taste and texture; but anyway, in England it would not for a moment be considered fit for human consumption. The war-bread which I have heard so much abused since my return would have been hailed by us as cake had we only had the good fortune to get it!

The “Baron,” both by reason of his reputed ringleadership and because when under examination he was disposed to treat the affair in a very cavalier fashion, was kept on low diet longer than the others, and did not, in fact, complete his term of bread and water until August 29th, a period of something over a month, but occasionally he was allowed a day or two on the ordinary full diet in order to keep him in a fair state of health.

When we were exercising in the Boma we used to pass close to the doors of the cells in which those undergoing punishment were confined, and it [114] became our practice to smuggle extra food to the prisoners. It required a certain amount of ingenuity to accomplish this without being caught, but it was quite possible, for there was no special watch over the cells, as they were next to the guard-house and the ordinary guard was supposed to be sufficient. We used to shove things through the bars when the guards were looking another way; hard-boiled eggs were the easiest things to manipulate, though not easy to procure. We fed the Major in the same way, and whenever I had to visit a prisoner professionally I used to take some food in my pocket and slip it under the bedclothes. I considered myself perfectly justified in this course, since, by my parole, I was only bound not to attempt to escape, and it involved no meticulous observance of rules within the Boma.

The men undergoing punishment were allowed only a small basin to wash in, and they had to sleep on beds which had previously been used by natives and were swarming with bugs! Further, I had great difficulty in persuading the Kommandant that regular daily exercise was essential for their health, and for a long while the Major was kept in a cell measuring about five by seven feet, and never allowed out at all. Even when he had completed his term and was allowed out during the day and took his meals in the common dining-room, he had to retire to his cell at sundown—about 6.30—and was then locked in for the night.

On August 3rd we received a European mail—the first to enter the Colony since the outbreak of [115] war, and, as it afterwards proved, the only one. It may be imagined how we read and re-read those letters, all of them months old, February being the latest date borne by any of mine. When later we enquired why no more mails arrived, we were told that the British would allow none to leave the Colony, and therefore the Germans would allow none to come in for the prisoners.

In September there was a further addition to our numbers in the persons of Sealy and Perks; the former a captain of Baluchis, and the latter an intelligence officer who was a volunteer, and in private life a coffee-planter in Uganda. Both had been captured in the fighting on the border, and Perks was clapped into a cell as soon as he arrived, and no one was allowed to have any communication with him.

We wondered who and what he could be that he should require such rigorous watching. Sealy, though he had been taken at the same time, could give but little information. He said that Perks had joined the post only a few days before the German raid, and a day or two later had been taken off in a different direction to the one in which the convoy was proceeding. He had sorely missed his company, especially as Perks spoke German, and he did not, but on entering one of the camps en route for the Boma a few days after their separation, he found Perks already there, and from that time onward they travelled in company until they arrived at Kilimatinde. When we learned that before the war Perks had worked for some time on [116] the railway in the Colony, and had an intimate knowledge of the country, we began to wonder if the Germans suspected him of espionage, and if so, whether they intended to shoot him.

I asked the Kommandant why he was not allowed to join us, and that worthy replied that he really could not answer my question, since he did not himself know the reason, but only that his confinement was in accordance with instructions from headquarters. Poor Perks spent a wretched time, as he had no idea why he was so harshly treated, and every morning when the Askari came to unlock his cell he thought that he was going to be led out to execution. They allowed him to have the door open in the daytime, and we used to see him sitting on an upturned box on the threshold and looking perfectly miserable. We were not allowed to speak to him, but tried to convey encouragement by nodding as cheerily as possible, and sometimes we managed to get in a whispered word or so when the guard was not looking. It was a nerve-racking period for him; and then suddenly one day, for no apparent reason, it ended, and he was informed that he might join the other prisoners.

Subsequently it transpired that it was a case of mistaken identity, the Germans having taken him for another man—a Jew who had escaped from the Colony at the commencement of the war, and whom they were particularly anxious to lay hands upon. The whole trouble had been due to one German who declared that poor Perks was the man in question, [117] but in the end he was able to convince them of their error.

Sealy told us how the Königsberg had been successfully bombarded in her lair in the Rifugi River. The Germans had carefully concealed this news from us, but when tackled on the subject they were forced to admit that it was true.

In October we were informed that negotiations for the exchange of another mail were in progress, and so we could write home. Much elated at the prospect of some later news from our people, we spent several days in writing letters, and these left the Boma on the 11th. But week succeeded week and yet our mail did not turn up. The Kommandant told us he believed a mail had been received, but that naturally it would take some time to sort and censor. Nevertheless, it did not materialise, and in the end we were forced to give up hope. The mail received in August, 1915, was the only one we ever had. This was the hardest trial of all we had to endure, for most of us had friends and relatives fighting in Europe and elsewhere, and it was heartrending never to have any news of them. To add to our misery, the letters we had written so joyfully in October, 1915, were returned to us in the following July: they had never left the Colony!

Among the interned prisoners were two brothers of the name of Beziudenhout; they were Boers, and evidently the Germans trusted them, perhaps because so many of their countrymen were still at large and working in the Colony. Anyway, these men were allowed far more liberty than any of the [118] rest of us. They were allowed to do various odd jobs of carpentering, etc., and were also employed in the Kommandant’s garden. I believe they were given a small amount of pay in return for their services, and we all knew that they received preferential treatment in the matter of food, for frequently we saw them retiring to their own room with a dish of poached eggs or some similar delicacy. But in the end they got tired of their confinement, modified though it was, and when wandering quietly in the garden as usual they took advantage of the liberty allowed them to do a bunk! Their absence was discovered the same night, but it was then too late to do anything but issue a warning to the Bomas round.

Of course we were all delighted at the neat way the Germans had been tricked, and they had only themselves to thank and certainly could not blame the Askaris, since the Boers had been given express permission to go in and out as they pleased. Vague rumours were rife, such as that one of the Boma boys had gone with them as guide, that they had managed to get hold of rifles and ammunition, and other conjectures equally improbable. Anyhow, we knew that they were familiar with the country; that is, they knew it as well as any man can know a great tract of Africa, where there are no roads or signposts, and distant hills or mountains form the only guiding landmarks—and further, they both spoke German and Swahili well.

But as it proved, they had no better luck than any of the others who had made similar attempts [119] to escape. Just as we thought they must be free of the danger-zone, the news arrived that they had been captured, and Müller in a towering rage started off with some Askaris to bring them back. He intended to give them a bad time, and made no secret of the fact that he would shoot them if they gave the slightest trouble.... And out in the wilds who should bear witness against him? Certainly not the Askaris; it would have been as much as their own lives were worth. It was therefore with great relief that we saw them marched in on October 27th, just nine days after their escape.

They were confined in separate cells and had to do a long term on bread and water, although I managed to get a little milk for the younger, who was suffering from a bad attack of Tick fever.

From him I learned that they had made good progress and were hoping to bring their venture to a successful issue, when, as in the case of the “Baron” and his companions, thirst proved their undoing. They travelled only at night, avoiding all villages, but one night when they went to a water-hole, the only one for miles around, a crowd of natives jumped on them from behind and bound them hand and foot. Evidently the natives had spotted them when they were hiding in the bush by day, and had assembled at the water-hole to catch them.

It may be noted that all recaptures were made by the agency of the natives, but whether through loyalty to the Germans or fear of them I cannot say.

In October, 1915, there was an outbreak of typhoid in the camp. The first to go down with it was Lieut.-Com. P——, who had been my messmate in the old Goliath and captured at the same time as myself. As soon as I recognised that his fever was something more than the usual malaria, I arranged with the Kommandant to have him sent down to the hospital at Morogoro, but shortly afterwards two or three more cases occurred, and the Germans realised that they would have to deal with what might prove a serious outbreak. I must admit that they rose to the occasion with commendable promptitude. They sent for Dr. Koudiké, a German bacteriologist, to investigate the matter, and pending his arrival gave me full power to take what precautions I could to limit the spread of the disease.

A large store-room on the ground floor was turned into an isolation hospital, and all suspicious cases were sent down there as soon as they went sick. I also had to commandeer two new punishment cells which had been recently built, and a few days later we took over a small European hut just outside the Boma. It was very fortunate that there was a mission nurse among the interned; [121] I really do not know what I should have done without her. I also took one of the Mission lay brothers into hospital service chiefly on account of his knowledge of Swahili and chemistry. He proved most useful in running the native staff, and impressing on them the rudiments of antisepsis—luckily there was an adequate supply of antiseptics in the dispensary.

Instructions were issued that all water should be boiled; previously this had not been considered necessary, as the water was drawn from a covered spring to which the natives had no access.

On the Kommandant devolved the duty of providing a supply of milk, and he had to send Askaris out to demand a certain amount from each village; this was boiled before being issued to the patients.

For the first few days, until the arrival of the German doctor, I was kept very busy, and the nursing was by no means easy, as our “wards” were so scattered, and the appliances at our disposal primitive and few in number.

Dr. Koudiké brought with him a stock of utensils and drugs, and he was accompanied by a Vize-Sanitäts-Feldwebel—that is, a man corresponding to an N.C.O. in the R.A.M.C.; his name was Schöpe. They took up their quarters in the native hospital and speedily transformed it. When I first saw it, it was full of various skins and trophies, with bottles of drugs scattered about haphazard; and mud-wasps, which had built their nests all over the walls, used to buzz round my head as I [122] dispensed the medicines. But now the place was thoroughly cleaned out, the walls and ceiling were given a good coat of whitewash, and mosquito-netting was nailed over all the windows.

As soon as the patients realised what was the matter with them they all wanted to be sent down to the hospital at Morogoro, but this the Germans would not allow. One can understand their point of view, as no one knew how many cases there might be, and the said hospital, being only a small one, could not accommodate a large number of fever patients, so the orders were that they should be kept in the camp, or at any rate in Kilimatinde, and a doctor would be sent up to look after them. But I had the greatest difficulty in persuading them that they were not, as they firmly believed, being left by the brutal Germans to die unsuccoured.

When Dr. Koudiké arrived he took over the charge of the patients and relieved me of a lot of responsibility. Further, he made arrangements for the sufferers to be removed to a house in the village about a quarter of a mile from the Boma. It was a well-built, one-storied building with four good-sized rooms, and it had a large baraza in front. It was said that it had been built as an hotel, but it had been empty since the war.

The doctor had it well cleaned and whitewashed, and new mosquito-netting fitted to the windows, and it was ready for occupation within a week. A crowd of natives were commandeered to carry the patients on their beds to the new quarters, and threatened with dire penalties should they drop [123] one on the way! The removal was accomplished without a single mishap.

Fortunately the outbreak was a slight one; in all there were only twelve cases, including the lieutenant-commander who had been removed to Morogoro. All recovered, and in most cases the attack was mild.

Dr. Koudiké was much exercised to trace the source of the infection. The water was tested several times, but always with negative results, and eventually it was decided that the fount of the mischief was one of the native cook-boys, who was proved to be a “typhoid-carrier.”

It is one of the most curious and interesting of modern medical discoveries that certain individuals, without apparently suffering themselves, become “carriers” of disease germs which can infect others. Typhoid is one of the diseases thus disseminated, and diphtheria is another.

In the course of Dr. Koudiké’s investigations nearly all the natives in the village, and certainly all who had any communication with the Boma, were tested, and it was found that many of them were typhoid-carriers, although none were at the time suffering from the disease. Typhoid is very common among the natives, but, so far as I could ascertain, it is not a cause of high mortality. The result of these investigations goes to prove that the greatest care should be observed in choosing a cook-boy in Africa.

The little Sanitäts-Offizier organised a native sanitary corps who went round all the buildings, both outside and inside the Boma, disinfecting [124] them and sprinkling chloride of lime. He also spent much time and labour in fitting up and beautifying the improvised hospital. Screens of bamboo and canvas were made, and native straw mats bought to cover the floors, and small bedside lockers with little curtains in front of them were made out of old boxes. But the chief and best of the innovations was the importation from Tabora of new beds, which were made of wood with properly fitting joints and a rope network to support the mattresses. These were the greatest boon, as the old native-made beds were very roughly put together, and many of them were full of bugs which lurked in the gaping joints! The only way to get rid of these pests was to take the bed to pieces and stick the ends and joints into boiling water. Further, being made of soft wood, they were frequently attacked by a small boring beetle (no pun intended!). My bed became thus infested, and during the night I could hear the little insects busily gnawing away at the woodwork. I spent much time in trying to save it from their ravages by squirting strong antiseptic into their holes, but it was no good, and one afternoon when I was lying down my couch gave out a sudden ominous creak—and collapsed!... That night I had to do a bit of carpentering before I could retire to rest, and I found that the inside of one of the poles was practically eaten away.

Dr. Koudiké remained at the Boma until December 6th, by which time all the patients were well on the road to recovery. When he left he [125] handed over the care of the patients to me, while the little Sanitäts man remained to run the general management of the hospital and superintend the feeding arrangements, etc. This he did very well, and I must mention that a German military cook had been imported to prepare the patients’ meals. The latter all admitted that they had been well treated in their improvised sanatorium, and were not in the least looking forward to returning to the Boma. Whatever the faults of the Germans at Kilimatinde—and those faults were many—I must in justice admit that in the matter of the typhoid outbreak they behaved with humanity, doing all in their power to make the sufferers comfortable and to ensure their recovery.

In November, 1915, arrangements were come to between the British and German Governments whereby pay should be advanced to prisoners of commissioned rank. Officers of, and above, the rank of captain were allowed to draw three rupees fifty hellers a day (R. 3.50), and those below that rank R. 3 a day. A rupee is equivalent, roughly speaking, to 1s. 4d. We were not, however, allowed to handle the money, for since the various attempts to escape all cash had to be deposited in the office, and any purchases we might wish to make were effected by the medium of signed “chits” which had to be, by the recipients, presented for payment at the office. But it was a blessing to feel we had money in the bank, and we could now buy those expensive cigarettes made by the Greeks instead of [126] confining ourselves to the cheapest pat-tobacco which had latterly been our fate, owing to the fact that our funds had dwindled almost to vanishing-point, and our sole source of income, namely, the reprehensible poker, had been knocked on the head by the calling in of all specie.

My first purchase consisted of a quantity of literature from Dar-es-Salaam, and I was able to get hold of some second-hand English books, as well as a complete edition of Schiller’s works, so we were well provided for some time to come.

Then, too, we were also able to add considerably to our menu by buying sausages and cheeses from Tabora, and small delicacies from Frau Mahnke.

In December we had yet another windfall. A bag full of clothing and good things was sent from Zanzibar for each of the naval prisoners, and these were allowed to come through, and were given out just before Christmas. The articles of clothing, more especially the boots, were greatly needed, and each bag further contained various potted meats and tinned delicacies, a plum-pudding, and—best gift of all—one and a half pounds of real Navy tobacco and some cigars and cigarettes. So this, our second Christmas in captivity, we were also able to celebrate in fitting style.

The unfortunate military prisoners, whom nobody seemed to have remembered, looked on with sad envy while we unpacked our presents. Of course, we shared some of our good things with them, but I fear that, among so many, there was only enough to make them long for more.

The Governor allowed us, the officers, to buy some of the alcohol which the Germans were making in the Colony. They showed wonderful enterprise in this respect, and put upon the market a whisky Ersatz (substitute) and various liqueurs—notably a Kummel , which was not at all bad, and some very good rum. Naturally it was all very new and fiery, and some brands smelt and tasted more like methylated spirit than anything else, but nevertheless it helped to impart the requisite Christmassy atmosphere.

About this time the Kommandant granted us another privilege: he allowed us to buy the local newspaper, reserving, however, the right to censor it before it came into our hands. It appeared once a week, and consisted of a single sheet; frequently it was printed on rough coloured paper such as is used for posters. It was evident that the supply of paper in the Colony was running very short. I had to act as interpreter, and—no matter what we might be doing—as soon as the sheet was given out I was installed on the table or on a bed in our room, and had to read it aloud to the others. We always turned first to news of the Colony, but, as at this time the great advance had not begun, the only tidings given were of small border-raids by the Germans, which, according to the paper, were invariably and monotonously successful. We were amused to note how meticulously the “enemy,” that is, British losses, were always reckoned up, while each account would end with “ Bei uns keine Verluste ”—on our side no losses! Then we used [128] to turn to “News from enemy sources”; this was evidently derived from wireless news issued from Zanzibar for the information of ships. But of course it was severely censored, as a result of which we were unable to glean a very accurate account of affairs in Europe, and, in fact, it appeared to us that the Allies were getting a very thin time of it. Naturally we discounted a lot, but nevertheless it was not at all cheering—and how we did long to know the truth !

When we had finished with the paper we passed it round the Boma, and a Belgian engineer used to read it to the Tommies. His knowledge of English was fair, but not perfect, and considering that he had to translate the text to himself in French before putting it into English, his rendering was not half bad. It was amusing to listen to the reading, for he was very fond of high-flown phraseology and frequently made use of quaint and quite unsuitable words. The soldiers were very quick at grasping his meaning, and they used to keep up a quick fire of prompting and comment.

This Belgian, whose name was Van Leo, used to do translation from German into English with me. We were studying Schiller’s “Thirty Years’ War,” and I tried hard, though with scant success, to wean him from his passion for the most pedantic dictionary terms. One way and another we spent a lot of time in study, particularly in that of languages. We had classes in German, French, English, Italian and Swahili, and one of us even ventured to tackle Russian, but the vagaries of the [129] alphabet were too much for him. Perks was the tutor in this subject; he was a wonderful linguist, and could chatter in French and German as easily as in English. His Italian, too, was quite fluent, and I believe his knowledge of Russian was equally good. He also spoke Arabic and Swahili. It was quite a usual thing for various different classes to be going on at the same time in the dining-hall or on the baraza . I was persuaded to give a series of elementary lectures on anatomy and physiology, and a course of first aid. One of the Padres gave lessons in Greek and Latin, and another in mathematics. Instruction in entomology was undertaken by one of the planters, and a Padre who was an ardent coleopterist. One of the miners had a good working knowledge of geology which he was eager to impart to anyone who cared to learn. Altogether we might well have called ourselves “The Kilimatinde University”! All we lacked was a competent authority on botany.

The Germans soon recognised that the learning of languages was a harmless and useful occupation for the prisoners, and they drew up a time-table for the men (who were in any case obliged to work), allotting two hours in the morning for study. Those who did not care to avail themselves of this had to make wooden pegs instead. This sounds a curious industry, but it was useful, for the pegs, which were about half an inch long and sharpened at one end, were used instead of nails or sprigs to fasten the soles on to boots and shoes; they were used chiefly in repairing the Askaris’ boots.

We had to do our own cobbling, and tools were provided, but there was a great dearth of leather. The European article was not to be had, and raw hide was issued to us with which we had to make shift to sole our boots. It was rather difficult to work, as it had to be soaked until soft and then nailed into position; then it answered very well as long as the weather was dry, but if one went out in the damp it promptly got soft again and the soles fell away from the uppers.

The Germans started a tannery at Tabora which was worked by some Boers, and the stuff they turned out, while much better than the raw hide, was still very inferior to any European leather, and even so, such as it was, the Germans kept nearly all of it for themselves and their Askaris.

Towards the end of 1915 the women in the Boma were told that they too must work; some of them were set to making shirts, pants, and various articles of underwear, and others to knitting socks for the troops. At first some of them struck and refused to work, but the Kommandant said that in that case he would not allow them to draw the milk ration for their children. As many of them were married and had families, this threat soon broke up the strike. The socks were rather comic, for wool was so scarce that all kinds and colours, chiefly gaudy Berlin wool, were used, and many of the women deliberately set themselves to see how many different colours they could get into one sock!

The soldiers proved uncommonly good knitters, but they would only work for themselves, and wool [131] was so difficult to get that sometimes two old socks would be unravelled and the material thus obtained knitted up again into a new pair. Needles were also at a premium, but while most of them contented themselves with home-made wooden ones, one ingenious fellow contrived to make a set out of the ribs of an old umbrella.

Many are the tales of German cruelty to natives, and while I am not in a position to state that torture and intimidation form an intrinsic part of Teutonic Colonial administration, or that such methods receive official sanction, I have nevertheless been the disgusted witness of horrible brutality on the part of individuals.

The guard Müller was a flagrant example of inherent ferocity. Brute and bully by nature, he would, had he dared, have ruled even us white prisoners with whips, and as it was he did everything in his power to make our position as intolerable as possible, while his treatment of the natives was unspeakable. On one occasion we saw from our windows two of these unfortunates being forced to carry heavy stones round the Askari Boma, a distance of five hundred yards or more. I was told that they had been convicted of house-breaking, and this was their punishment; each man had to balance on his head an enormous piece of rock weighing, I should judge, more than one hundred pounds—anyway, it required the united efforts of two Askaris to lift it into position. Then, supporting this heavy load on head and hands, the poor wretches had to make the tour of the Boma, not [133] once only, but three times at least. Before they had gone far they began to stagger under the weight, and finally threw it off. Then the Askaris set on them and beat them until they again raised the burden and went on. By the third round they were absolutely exhausted, and I saw one of them fall heavily to the ground. Immediately the guards began to beat him with kibokos —whips made of flexible hippo hide. For a long time he lay still where he had fallen, and only moaned and quivered under the blows; then once more they got him to his feet and the stone again in position. He staggered a few yards and again collapsed, and this time did not rise for all their beating, so they began to kick him with their heavy boots—hard kicks delivered with all their might on his bare back and ribs. The sight made our blood boil, but we were powerless to interfere, for the Kommandant was away and Müller in charge, and we knew that it was by his orders that under pretext of administering justice (save the mark!) these natives were being thus maltreated, and had we gone to him and complained he would only have sneered at us and told us to mind our own business.

Another of the men, after two rounds of the Boma, refused to carry his stone, and all the beatings and kickings of the Askaris having failed to compel him to resume the load, they got a piece of string and, tying it to one of his fingers, bent it back until it touched the back of his hand, and, howling in agony, he once more tried to raise and support the stone on his head. In the end both men were [134] brought in totally exhausted and thrown into a cell, where for several days they lay, unable to move. Saidi, the hospital boy, told me they were dreadfully sick, and I only wondered they did not die, for I quite imagined the ferocious kicks they had received might well have ruptured liver or spleen. I must say I marvelled that the Askaris should behave, even under orders, with such brutality to their own countrymen, but there is little doubt but that the African delights in ill-using his fellows if given the opportunity, and it is a fact that the Askaris always treated with the utmost cruelty all other natives, such as porters, etc., put under their charge.

On another day I again witnessed one of Müller’s punishments. It was when I was in charge of the typhoid patients. The road to the hospital led past a cattle-yard, and one morning as I was returning from my professional visit, I saw the chain-gang prisoners carrying the cattle-manure from one spot to another. They had to run with the muck in their hands, and each man as he passed the Askaris received a blow from their kibokos . It was equivalent to running the gauntlet; and no matter if the prisoner worked well or slacked, he got his stripe every time! Quaint justice! Like most bullies, Müller was coward as well; he always managed to avoid going to the Front—pleaded a weak heart, though the said weakness did not interfere with long, arduous days of hunting! By some unknown means he had got a hold over Colzau, and so great was his influence [135] that he was often able to veto small reforms to which I had practically obtained the Kommandant’s consent. Further, in order to avoid active service, he got the latter to declare that he was invaluable at the camp and could not be spared. When the advance into the Colony began, and it was evident that the days of German rule were numbered, Müller changed his tactics, and began to fawn upon us, trying by present kindness and consideration to efface the memory of past insolence and tyranny. But—we knew our man!

In February, 1916, a case of assault by some of the Askaris on one of the white prisoners occurred in the Boma. It happened when Colzau was away, and a young naval lieutenant from the Königsberg , Horn by name, was temporarily in charge.

Van Leo noticed that one of the Askaris was threatening a small boy, child of one of the interned prisoners. Van Leo naturally reproved the man, who promptly began to revile him in Swahili, calling him all the insulting names he could think of, and the Belgian, saying that he intended to report him, moved off towards the Kommandant’s office. He was half-way up the stairs when the Askari called out to the rest of the guard, who thereupon seized him and dragged him down the steps. This the rest of us witnessed from the baraza , where we were sitting at the time, and we promptly went down to the courtyard to investigate and to protect Van Leo.

The Askaris gathered round in a menacing group while he told us the details of the affair. It [136] was late in the afternoon; Lieut. Horn was out at the time, and it so happened that there was no German in the Boma at all! We waited in the courtyard until the lieutenant returned, and then told him of the incident. He promised to hold an investigation the next morning. We all identified the Askaris implicated, and when laying our complaint, strongly emphasised the fact that the natives should be made to thoroughly understand that in no circumstances were they to lay hands on Europeans. We warned Horn that the present case might easily have developed into a riot, and that if such an incident were allowed to go unpunished it was possible that there would be serious trouble in the camp. He promised that the offenders should be punished, and in the end the ringleader was sent to the Front, while the others were given extra drill, but in my opinion they were let off very lightly. It was fortunate that Colzau happened to be away at the time, otherwise I am certain that Müller would have persuaded him that we had exaggerated the affair, and the Askaris would probably have got off altogether!

In January, 1916, it was decided that all persons who had never had typhoid, and had not been inoculated, should be removed to Tabora, and as soon as those liable to contract the disease had been thus removed the patients from the temporary hospital were brought back into camp.

It is worthy of note that none of the soldiers in the camp got typhoid; they had been inoculated [137] against the disease. All the cases occurred among the civilians and sailors, as at that time inoculation was not a part of naval routine.

It was in February that I performed the only operation I had to do during my imprisonment, and, strangely enough, my patient was a German—an Unter-Offizier. It was not a serious matter, and he did not want to go down to Tabora or Morogoro for fear that he should not be allowed to return to Kilimatinde, which place he greatly preferred to the firing-line! As he was quite a decent fellow and had never presumed on his position to bully the prisoners, I consented to do the operation for him, and the Sanitäts man already referred to acted as my assistant. The case did very well, and my patient was so pleased with the result that, knowing my interest in the German language, he presented me with a fine dictionary in proof of his gratitude.

In March I received orders from the Governor to pay a visit of inspection to the camp at Bugiri, where a number of missionaries were confined. I was given a Masheela to take me to Saranda station, while the guard who accompanied me rode an old white mule. This guard, whose name was Krum, was something of a character and amused us a good deal. A short little chap with very bow-legs, he spoke English well, and he claimed to be a great “big game” hunter. He had spent some time in British East Africa, and asserted that he had accompanied the Duke of Westminster on his [138] shooting trip in that country, and that the latter had given him a fine rifle at the end of the trip. We used to pull the little man’s leg about his familiarity with the Duke, but he was a good-natured chap and did not mind our teasing in the least. I was quite glad to have his company on the trip, for he was very resourceful. We travelled first-class, and as we started late in the afternoon it soon became quite dark. The train was not lighted at all, and each passenger had brought his own lamp; we had none, however, but Krum speedily discovered a pal on board, and borrowed his lamp for us to eat our supper by. He also provided the food—a tin of sardines, and a loaf of bread which was infinitely superior to anything in that way which we got in camp. It could not compare with British “war-bread,” but I enjoyed it so much that I ate more than half of it, washing it down with draughts of Kummel , Dar-es-Salaam brew. Then the lamp had to be returned to its rightful owner and the rest of the journey was accomplished in darkness.

I alighted at Kikombo station, for Bugiri, about 9 p.m., but Krum got out at the preceding one, Dodoma by name. It appeared that he had a pal there whom he wished to see, and thought this a very favourable opportunity. I have no doubt his proceeding was highly irregular and contrary to orders, but he trusted me to get out at my proper destination, and indeed there was not much else I could do, for it would have been of no possible advantage to me to go on in the train.

I was met by a German called Schenck, in peace-time a clerk in an office in Dar-es-Salaam, but now a private called up for war-service. He was to accompany me to the camp, and had a Masheela in which he was carried—but no conveyance was provided for me. I decided to make no remark on this discourtesy, at any rate to him, but rather to prove that an Englishman could walk even if a fat German—and he was fat—could not! The journey, which took about an hour and a half, was a trying one for me. The night was very dark, only fleeting moonbeams occasionally pierced the heavy clouds, and we travelled by the inadequate light of a swinging lantern carried by one of the natives. I did not know the road, which was a mere track, often only wide enough to allow us to proceed in single file, and twice it crossed the dried-up bed of a water-course. When we had gone some distance Herr Schenck offered to let me ride a little if I was tired. I was, but, as his manner seemed to me distinctly offensive, I would not be beholden to him, and tramped doggedly all the way; but I was glad when we at last reached our objective.

The camp had been originally a Church Missionary Society station, and some of the buildings were still quite good and habitable.

Mrs. W——, who had been in Kilimatinde when we first arrived there, was waiting up and had prepared some coffee for me. She and her husband were anxious to hear all the news of the old Boma, and when I had imparted such as there was, we compared notes on the European situation as [140] viewed from such meagre scraps of information as we had been able to pick up. The Kommandant at Bugiri was the notorious Derndorf whom we had christened the “Anteater.” He did not allow his prisoners to see the newspaper, but they managed to circumvent him, for, as he was not good at figures, one of the planters used to go to the office to do his accounts for him, and while thus employed generally managed to steal a look at the paper.

I spent two days at Bugiri, but there was not much for me to do. There were two or three nursing-sisters in the camp, and they looked after anyone who was ill. I merely gave some advice about the treatment of some fever patients, and took a general look round. The sanitary arrangements were very primitive, and would have required considerable alteration had the camp been occupied for any length of time; but I knew my visit was more or less of a farce—a sop to public opinion—and no proposed reforms of mine would have been carried out, unless, perhaps, under the compulsion of an epidemic.

At Kilimatinde we were very short of mending materials—wool, needles, etc.—and I managed to collect quite a lot from the ladies in this camp to take back with me.

I returned to my own prison on the third day, and was then informed that I should be required to visit Bugiri once a month; but, as it happened, I never went again, for the advance of our troops into German East Africa began shortly after this [141] first visit of mine, and the camp was broken up, the prisoners being removed to Tabora.

In April we had another death at Kilimatinde. One of the soldiers, another Loyal North Lancashire man, O’Neil by name, succumbed to blackwater fever. We had to bury him on the day he died, and, as he was a Roman Catholic, the service was conducted by a German priest who came from a Catholic mission station situated in the Wagogo plain, and not far from the Boma. This Father gave a short address at the graveside, in which he laid stress on the fact that Death must end all enmity, and that we all hoped to rise again to one Eternal Brotherhood. As he spoke in German few of us could understand him, but we all appreciated his evident sincerity and good-will.

In April, 1916, the sad apathy bred of weary captivity and hope too long deferred was broken by wild rumour, speculation and surmise. What was happening in the Colony? We knew that our troops were advancing— that they could not entirely hide from us; but we were no longer allowed to see the newspaper, and so could get no really reliable news. Several times we were ordered to pack and be ready to move to another camp, and then at the last moment the order was cancelled and we were told we should not go that day. Even the Germans themselves seemed to have no idea of what was happening, or what orders they would receive next. Once all our gear, including beds and bedding, was carefully packed and down in the courtyard ready for the porters to carry to the station, when the order arrived that we were not to go after all, and we had the weary job of unpacking and putting our rooms ship shape again. But—forty-eight hours later we really did go.

It was a broiling hot day when we marched down to Saranda station, and we had had no regular exercise for so long that we were all pretty well “finished” by the time we got there. Wierick, a sailor from the Moewe , went in charge of us. He [143] knew no English, but by this time we all knew Swahili—the lingua franca in East Africa—and three of us could speak German, so we got on all right. They gave us a meal at the station, but it was a very different affair to the one we had had eighteen months before. This time we had coffee minus sugar, some cold beef and biscuits—real European biscuits they were, but so full of weevils that they reminded me of the old sailors’ yarns of having to tap their biscuits on the table before they could be eaten, in order to evict the inhabitants!

The train was late, and when it at last came in it proved to be so crowded that for some time we thought we should have to remain behind—and we firmly made up our minds to refuse to tramp back to the Boma that night. Ours being, as it were, a “personally conducted tour,” we did not have to scramble for seats, and rather enjoyed watching the dilemma of Wierick and the station-master. The train was packed; there was a rumour of the rapid advance of the South Africans, and all the people down the line seemed to have taken fright and to be moving up to Tabora. Not only the carriages, but even the luggage-vans were crowded with women and children, sitting on such baggage as they had been able to pack and bring with them. The station-master, pushing back the doors of a van just opposite to where we were standing, exposed to view a medley of furniture. Piled one on the other were beds, bedding, chairs, a bath, and a baby’s perambulator, with a parrot’s cage crowning the edifice! From the midst of this [144] motley collection suddenly appeared the old German Frau to whom they belonged, loudly vociferating that there was no room. When she heard the word “ Gefangenen ,” she shouted, “ Nein, nein! ” and tried to close the door; but the station-master wrenched it open again, shouting, “ Aber sie müssen mit diesem Zug fahren. Es ist der Befehl. ” There followed a torrent of invective so rapid that I could not follow it, and the old lady’s voice broke into angry sobs. The station-master shouted and shook his fist, while Wierick stood shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. In the end they had to retire defeated!

Much the same performance was repeated before each van, and finally Wierick, coming up to us, declared apologetically that we must travel in the mail-sorting van. The six of us and our two “boys,” as well as Wierick and his “boy” and the Askari guard, just managed to squeeze into the small space available. There were no seats, so we distributed our bags on the floor and squatted on them; there was not room to lie down, and we could only by careful manœuvring get our legs out straight. Our beds had to be left behind, and it was promised that they should follow in the next train.

When we discovered that Wierick had a box of specie with him, and it appeared that all the silver rupees were being sent down from Kilimatinde to Tabora, we nudged each other and whispered, “That looks as though they were really on the run. It can’t last much longer now.”

Thus uncomfortably we travelled from 7.30 till [145] 10 p.m., when we arrived at a station where a meal had been prepared for us; and here also they put on a special truck—luckily a covered one—for us to travel in. Now we had plenty of room, so we arranged our rugs on the floor and used our bags for pillows. But the floor was most uncommonly hard, and we did not sleep very soundly.

Some time before we left the Boma we had acquired a pet in the shape of a little monkey. He had been caught by one of the Askaris in the garden when he was quite a tiny mite, only about three weeks old, and P—— had bought him for a rupee. He soon became very tame, and was great fun. He would accompany us on our walks, when he ran loose all over the place, climbing trees, and ignoring our existence; but as soon as we started to return to the Boma he would tear after us and jump on someone’s shoulder for a ride home. We had brought Bill, as we called him, away with us, and he was wildly excited at the train journey. He would not settle down for a long time, but when we wrapped ourselves in our blankets for the night he came and curled himself up against my neck and refused to be moved. I tried in vain to induce him to share my rug; he would have none of it, and in the end I had to go to sleep with him still cuddled against my neck.

We both awoke early next morning at the clear African dawning, which is quite chilly, but wonderfully fresh and invigorating. Bill was greatly startled when he saw the trees rushing by, and clung to the window-bars chattering excitedly.

We disembarked at Tabora, and had a walk of about ten minutes’ duration to the camp. Here we were greeted by T—— and several other old friends, who had been moved there previously, as well as by those of our men who had been captured with us but who had from the first been confined at Tabora. We also made the acquaintance of two Belgian officers. The camp had been in the first place quite a small affair, and the buildings as we now saw them had been constructed by the prisoners themselves. Some of them, notably the guard-house at the entrance, were really fine structures.

The day after our arrival I went down with a bad attack of dysentery. Dr. Keller came to see me several times, and finally decided that I must be moved down to his hospital. A wheeled ambulance was sent to transport me thither, and when I was leaving all the other officers crowded round to wish me a speedy recovery. As it happened, this was the last time I saw them, for while I was in hospital they were all moved to a station up the line near Lake Tanganyika, and in all our subsequent wanderings we never came together again.

That journey to the hospital was the most painful I have ever experienced, for the roads were very uneven and the ambulance seemed to have no springs at all! I was greatly relieved to find on arrival that one of the English mission nurses was nursing there, and during the ten days I spent there I was very well looked after, not only by her, but by Dr. Keller and all the German staff.

When I was convalescent I made the acquaintance of another German doctor, Mouster by name, who was also a patient. He had been looking after the prison camp, and all the patients were loud in their praises of his many kindnesses to them. I believe he did his utmost to make their lot bearable, but he was greatly handicapped in his efforts by the unsympathetic attitude of the Kommandant and his staff, more especially because, being not an army but a civilian doctor, his word did not carry the weight of military authority.

At the end of ten days I had to return to the camp, as there was a lot of sickness there, and Dr. Keller, having the whole of Tabora as well as the hospital to look after, could devote very little time to the interned. Consequently I was, as at Kilimatinde, put in medical charge of the camp, although at the time I was feeling wretchedly ill and weak, and could scarcely get round in the mornings to visit the sick. My job would have been really impossible had it not been for the assistance of two very capable mission nursing-sisters who were among the prisoners, and under whose diligent care I soon recovered my own strength.

It was, however, impossible for me to eat the ordinary bread, which was as bad or worse than that at Kilimatinde, and Dr. Mouster kindly sent me down a few loaves made with a percentage of wheat-flour, with which I managed until my digestion was again working soundly. A small quantity of bread made from muhogo root (a species [148] of arrowroot) was also supplied for such of the patients as could not manage the ordinary ration. It was not very palatable, but it contained less indigestible matter, and was correspondingly more fit for human consumption.

Although we had been instructed to bring our “boys” with us, when we arrived in Tabora they were not allowed inside the camp and were sent back to Kilimatinde. I believe the reason for this was that they would have had to live in the town, and the Germans did not wish them to be in a position to bring in outside news. They were sorry to go, and we were sorry to lose them. This was especially the case in regard to Feruzi, who, although the ugliest fellow imaginable, with a very broad, flat nose and an almost ebony skin covered with pockmarks, was yet the cheeriest beggar! He was for ever smiling, and had such a genuine hearty laugh. It was quite a tonic in the morning to be greeted by Feruzi’s ugly, grinning mug and hear his cheery “ Jambo Bwana! ” Salimu, the other “boy,” was a more reserved character: a coast Swahili with very good features and a cafe-au-lait coloured skin, he was very tall for a native, standing nearly six foot. S——, who was a bit of an amateur conjurer, used often—to their great delight—to do some simple tricks for them. They would express their surprise by clicking rapidly with the tongue at the back of the throat, like a monkey when it is startled or scared. It was indescribably comic, and we used to roar with laughter at them, and then they too would break into peals of mirth, and Feruzi would roll [149] on the ground in a perfect ecstasy of uncontrollable amusement.

Just before I went into hospital all the military and naval prisoners (N.C.O.’s and rankers) were removed from Tabora and sent down the line en route for Iringa, and while I was away the officers were sent up the line to Kasulu, a small station near Lake Tanganyika. So when I returned I found few but civilians in the camp. Some of these had been collected from other places, and most of them I had met before, but of the military only a few sick who had been unable to travel remained. Among them was a private of the Loyal North Lancashires, who had been captured at Tanga. This poor chap had had his leg amputated above the knee, and I made many efforts to get him sent home or exchanged, but the Germans, while admitting that he was no longer fit for active service, maintained that it was impossible to get into touch and hand him over. My own impression is that no effort to do so was ever made.

In all there were about one hundred and thirty-five persons in Tabora, and while there I heard of the rough and brutal treatment meted out to our fighting men when in that camp. In the tropical sun and without adequate protection, they were forced to work throughout the heat of the day, erecting the camp buildings. When captured none of the sailors had sun-helmets, and for many months none were served out to them. As might be expected, many suffered from sunstroke, but luckily none succumbed. Even if a man was [150] suffering from fever he was turned out in the morning just the same, and if he was not smart enough he was threatened with a revolver; it was only when, as often happened, they actually collapsed while at work that they were allowed to go sick.

In the early months of their captivity there was no doctor in attendance; the guards used to issue a few doses of quinine, and on the third day a fever-patient was required to resume work.

When the guard-house at Tabora was under construction our men were employed as unskilled labourers. Native masons did the actual building, and our men had to carry stone and water for them—in fact, to do the coolie labour. In Africa this is almost unthinkable, and it serves to show the methods used with the object of degrading the British in the eyes of the natives. Further, our soldiers and sailors were made to haul baggage, etc., from the station. Imagine the picture! White men, barefoot, and clad only in ragged vest and trousers, pulling a truckload of stores, or some German’s luggage, under a native guard! I confess that when I first heard of it I could not believe it. Bad in many ways as was the treatment we had to put up with at Kilimatinde, it was very different to that . Yet I was assured that it was perfectly true, and that not only by eye-witnesses, but by men who had themselves had to do it.

Again, the water for the camp was drawn from a well about two hundred yards distant, and the [151] prisoners had been employed in making a road across the intervening marsh, which was nothing but a swamp in some places. That does not make a pretty picture either! White men toiling in the heat of a tropic day up to their waists in mud and water, with an Askari guard over them, and a group of lounging natives looking on!

I was told by a planter who spoke Swahili that one day an old native condoled with him on the hard lot of the British, who would never see their homes again. When asked what he meant by that, he said: “The Wadachi (Germans) say that you are their slaves, and if you are slaves you will never see your homes again.”

When he was assured that the British troops would soon arrive and then the tables would be turned, and the Germans would be prisoners, he shook his head and said: “No, the English are beaten. The Germans tell us so.”

This was before the advance, when it seemed to us prisoners, as well as to the natives, that the campaign in East Africa had been abandoned.

I can only attribute the brutal treatment in this camp to the fact that its management was left so much to underlings—N.C.O.’s and privates. The Kommandant did not live there, and only attended at the office for an hour or two in the mornings, when, if anyone lodged a complaint, he always took the part of his subordinates. The men who really ran the show had, prior to the outbreak of hostilities, been employed in shops and offices, and evidently they deemed a domineering and brutal [152] manner the correct accompaniment of their uniform.

I must admit that while I was in camp they treated me with a certain measure of respect. This may have been due to the fact that at that time Moschi and Arusha were already in our hands, and Van Deventer’s column had reached Kondoa Irangi; or it may have been because I was that privileged being, an officer, a member of a caste so sacred in German eyes that its halo extended even to a captured enemy. They do nothing without a motive, and it is to their determination to uphold the military tradition that a certain preferential treatment of officers may be safely attributed.

On my return from hospital a small room boarded off from one of the large ones was allotted to me, and I was allowed a servant—a Portuguese prisoner who volunteered for the job.

Just about this time (May, 1916) there arrived for the prisoners a quantity of gifts which had been sent from Zanzibar, chiefly through the agency of the Bishop there. At the same time some quinine and other drugs were sent in by the British authorities from the same place. The parcels were unpacked in the guard-room by some of the prisoners and they contained articles of clothing, as well as such foodstuffs as Bovril, chocolate, cocoa, tea, biscuits, etc. But the prisoners were only allowed to take the clothing, being informed that, by order of the Governor, no luxuries would be permitted, and all articles of food were included under that heading. So they had the tantalising [153] job of unpacking all these good things, only to have them confiscated. Tobacco and cigarettes were also included in the taboo.

I enquired what was to become of all these things, pointing out that they had been sent for the sole benefit of the prisoners , and should not have been accepted if it was intended to withhold them. The guard shrugged his shoulders and said that the Governor’s decision had only been communicated to them a few days previously, and it had not yet been decided what should be done with the prohibited articles—adding that it was rumoured that they were to be used for the sick. I agreed to this on the condition that they were used for the sick prisoners , and not for anyone else.

A few days later a German naval doctor who had come to Tabora to assist Dr. Keller visited the camp. He proved to be quite a decent fellow. He had been with the Königsberg up the Rufugi for some time (although he did not belong to that ship), and he had the Iron Cross. I took him into my room for a smoke and a chat, and told him about the withholding of the food in the parcels, and he arranged to see the Kommandant with me on the following morning. The result of our interview was that the Kommandant wrote to the Governor that it had been represented on medical grounds that the Bovril, tea, chocolate, etc., should be issued to the prisoners when recommended by the medical officer. A satisfactory reply was received to this letter, and the requisite permission granted.

While in Tabora I had to visit the Indian camp about twice a week. On the first occasion, as I did not know my way there, I went to enquire at the Apotheke , or public dispensary, which was a little way up the road from our camp. There I was given a native guide, and we started off, the guide walking a few paces ahead of me. Suddenly, to my infinite amazement, he began to talk in perfect, idiomatic English. At first I was so startled I did not reply. Then, “Where did you learn English?” I demanded. Smiling, he replied that he had been brought up in the Mission at Zanzibar, and since then had taken a course of correspondence lessons from a school in London; and not only did he know English perfectly, but he was proficient in mathematics! He told me that he had been clerk to several firms, and had been working for one in German East Africa when the war broke out. Then, because of his well-known leaning to all things English, the Germans had had him interned. At first he had been very badly treated, and set to menial coolie labour, but later, finding that he was a useful man, they had employed him in the hospital and dispensary at Tabora.

On arrival at the Indian camp, which was at some distance from ours, I found that I was only to be allowed to visit a small enclosure which was used as a hospital. There I met an Indian doctor whose name was Mohammed Din. He was a native of Bengal, and had been trained at Bombay. Captured at Tanga, he had subsequently been kept to look after his own countrymen, just as I had been. [155] He told me that the amount of sickness among the Indians was appalling, and the death-rate very high. Unfortunately I did not make a note of the exact figures he gave me, but they ran into hundreds, and the chief causes of death were dysentery and typhoid. They all suffered from chronic malaria, and, since quinine was too precious to be lavished on natives, the only drug allowed them was the Chinoidin solution—at best a palliative, not a cure. But I promised—it was all I could do—to do what little lay in my power to alleviate their miseries.

I was allowed my parole at Tabora, and I often went into the town and lunched with two French officers who were living there—also on parole. They had been on a visit to the Colony in 1914, with the intention of attending the exhibition which was to have been held at Dar-es-Salaam in the August of that year, and when war broke out they were promptly interned, but afterwards they were allowed to live as they pleased so long as they reported themselves twice a week at the Boma. Lunch with them was a treat I greatly appreciated, for they were able to get much better food than we had in camp—and I had some roast meat as a welcome change from that eternal boiled stuff!

Several Italians also lived outside the camp under similar conditions. And when one of these sent in to say he was sick and required a doctor, I was instructed to go and see him. On this occasion I was accompanied by a Turk who had probably [156] been working in the Colony before the war, and was now wearing German uniform. He was a funny little, squat, bow-legged figure, partially eclipsed by a helmet miles too big for him, and could speak neither English nor German, but only Swahili, in which language the Germans used to give him his orders. The Italian who had requested my services was running a dairy and market-garden. There was not much the matter with him, but he gave me coffee and some of the locally-made curaçoa , and told me a good deal of news concerning the progress of the British troops. Of course the Turk could not understand what we said, and we pretended to be discussing the patient’s symptoms, throwing in now and then a word or two of Swahili to allay his suspicions.

On the day after my visit the Italian sent me a present of some butter, a cake, and a bottle of brandy Ersatz ; but the latter I was not allowed to receive until I had been to the Kommandant and told him that I had the Governor’s permission to have alcohol in camp; then I was permitted to retain it on condition that I did not give any of it to other prisoners.

Shortly after my spell in hospital, Van Leo, the Belgian mining expert, was sent down to Tabora from Kilimatinde, and he shared my room. As he, too, was allowed his parole, he used to accompany me into the town and share my cheery little luncheon-parties with the French officers. He told me that when he, together with the remaining civilians, left Kilimatinde, no one remained at the [157] old Boma but De Vigneulles, the German on whom I had operated. Colzau and the other guards, it appeared, had all gone south with the military prisoners.

On May 22nd I was informed that orders had been received to send me to Morogoro, and on the following morning, accompanied by Derndorf, whose camp at Bugiri had been closed down, I set out. Leaving Tabora at about 9 a.m., we reached Morogoro the next morning. Here I was met by a young fellow who conducted me to the hospital, where I learned that I was required to take medical charge of four wounded prisoners and accompany them to Mahenge. As most of them were suffering from fever and not fit to travel, I had to wait in Morogoro for about a week until they were convalescent.

Herr Stabsarzt Manteufel, the doctor in charge, kindly put me up in one of the smaller wards which at the time was occupied only by one patient who was recovering from dysentery. He was a Bavarian, a fact easily deducible from his speech, for he frequently relapsed into Platt-Deutsch, but I was able to understand him pretty well. He told me that I ought to understand Low German more easily than High German, since the former was more like English, and he lent me some of his books to read. I was interested to find that he had been in Dar-es-Salaam on the day I was captured, and [159] further, that he was one of the men who had been taking pot-shots at me when I was in the boat! When I rallied him on his poor shooting he said that any way he did his best to hit me, and added that he had no idea I was a doctor. He was very anxious to get hold of an English sovereign to make a ring for his wife, and offered me fifty rupees in original paper money if I would give him one, and promised faithfully not to say a word about the transaction. Of course, gold currency was getting very scarce in the Colony, but it was long before I could persuade him that I truly did not possess such a coin as he craved for.

Later I was given a room to myself, and providing that I did not go near the railway-station, Dr. Manteufel gave me permission to come and go as I liked. Thus I was able to walk about without let or hindrance, a privilege I greatly appreciated.

I bought a quantity of tobacco and cigarettes for myself as well as for the other prisoners who had no money.

The food at this hospital was excellent, and we had quantities of fruit—papaws, bananas, custard-apples and cape gooseberries. As the water-supply was not above suspicion the patients were all allowed soda-water to drink.

We left Morogoro on June 1st, and travelled by train to Kilossa, a distance of only a few miles, and there we spent the night. Ellersdorf accompanied us as guard. He was a native of Munich—a young planter who for some reason or other was considered [160] unfit for active service. At Kilossa we found four South Africans who had been recently captured near Kondoa, and they were to join our safari and travel with us to Mahenge.

One of the patients under my charge had been shot in the thigh and could not walk any distance, so he had to be carried in a masheela . Before we could start the next morning, porters had to be procured for him, and as there was some difficulty about this, it was not until nearly midday that we got away.

The first day’s march was a short one of only about two hours’ duration, and we camped at a small village within sight of the Kilossa hills. I slept in a native hut, and as I had my own bed with me I was quite comfortable. A hut was also provided for the other prisoners, but they preferred the open, and spread their blankets under some trees.

Rations consisting of mealy-meal, rice, coffee, sugar, and a mixture of matama and wheat-flour for bread-making, as well as the necessary utensils, had been issued to them before leaving Kilossa, and they had to do their own cooking on arrival in camp. The inhabitants of each village had to provide the firing—dry sticks gathered in the jungle, and huge logs. The Askaris kept a great fire burning all night both for the sake of warmth, for it was very cold after sunset, and also for light, as one of them had to be continually on watch to see that none of the prisoners escaped. Ellersdorf, who had with him a tent as well as his two “boys”—one [161] of whom acted as cook—was a decent fellow, and I had my meals with him. On the first day we talked German, but then I discovered that he had a good knowledge of English, and for the rest of the journey we spoke only in that tongue. From him I gathered that in the German schools modern languages are considered far more important than with us. He told me that in Munich, where he came from, it was the custom for any boy who had acquired a good knowledge of English to act as guide to British and American tourists when they visited the town, and in this way many of them gained a fluent and colloquial knowledge of the language.

Our second day’s journey was also a short one—about four hours’ march over a road fairly good and broad, though it was but a beaten track, not a made road, and any heavy traffic would soon have cut it up. We passed one or two shambas , but the district was for the most part uncultivated. We arrived about midday at our destination, a village called Ulaiya.

Ellersdorf and I each had a hut to ourselves, and the others were accommodated in a larger one. The road by which we had travelled was the main safari route from Kilossa to Iringa, along which ran a single telegraph line, and as there was a good deal of traffic up and down, all these buildings had been erected especially for the benefit of wayfarers. A small and muddy river ran just behind the village, and in this we obtained permission to bathe in the afternoon—of course, with a guard over us.

The next day we breakfasted before dawn and were under way soon after 6 a.m. A long journey was before us, and the road, which lay through a forest, was but a primitive native track only a foot or two wide. The forest was not dense; the trees stood several feet apart, and the sun filtered down between them, but they gave a very welcome shade.

We had to proceed in single file through the elephant-grass, which grew to a height of from five to eight feet. All day we travelled through similar scenery. It was hard going, for we were in the foothills and the ground rose and fell continually. On a rise we could see for some distance, but nothing save trees and waving grass met the eye, and in a dip nothing was visible but the path immediately before us, flanked by the elephant-grass, which rose solid as a wall on either hand. It was a very dry strip of country, and not until midday did we come to water—a small, sluggish, dirty-looking stream, full of dead branches and decaying vegetation. Here we made a halt, cooked some food, and boiled water for coffee, and after our meal and a short rest started off again.

On the banks of the stream were the remains of an old village—a few tumble-down huts and abandoned plots which the jungle was fast reclaiming. It had been, I was told, abandoned on account of the ticks— papasi , as the natives call them—which are the carriers of African Tick-fever, a relapsing fever, very difficult to cure, and the cause of much sickness. The ticks are huge, big [163] brutes as large as a finger-nail, and when they have sucked their fill of blood, which they do by burying their horrid heads in the flesh of their victims, they swell out like miniature balloons. Owing to their prevalence in this district safaris never camped there if it could be avoided.

We arrived about 4 p.m. at the village where we were to spend the night, and I doubt if we could have gone much further, for we were all dead-beat. It had been a very strenuous day for men unaccustomed to walking. My patients were only just out of hospital and I had for long been restricted to only the most moderate amount of exercise. It is true that the South Africans were more or less fit, but they complained more loudly than any of us, for they belonged to a mounted corps, and of course a South African never walks if he can ride.

Chickens were the staple diet on safari , and at each village we came to the Askari corporal would hunt up the headman and bring him before Ellersdorf, who gave him orders to provide so many fowls. These were paid for at a standard rate. Freshly-ground maize was obtainable at most of the villages, and it made very good porridge, or “mealy pap,” as the South Africans called it. Sometimes we were able to get fruit, too, but at this halting-place in the middle of the forest there was none to be had.

That night I pitched my bed under a tree and the others spread their blankets round the fire. We thought it unsafe to sleep in one of the native huts, [164] as they were almost sure to be infected with the ticks afore mentioned.

Early next morning—the fourth day of our journeying—we were on the road again before the sun was well up. Our route lay through open forest-country, and we frequently came across the fresh spoor of elephants, but we never saw the beasts themselves. As a rule they lie up in a cool spot during the day and only come out at night to feed. At times during our nights in camp we heard the sinister coughing roar of lions at a little distance, and the skulking brutes of hyænas would come quite close, though they kept carefully outside the circle of light thrown by the fire.

That day’s march was not quite so long as the previous one had been, but it was very tiring, for it was all up and down hill. We seemed to be crossing a series of crests running in parallel low ranges across our line of march. Once we heard the sound of a river brawling along in a valley far below us, but we did not see it until we came suddenly upon it, flowing right across our path. We stripped off boots and socks and forded it. It was about thirty yards wide with firm sandy bottom, and the water was only up to our knees at the deepest part. We pitched our camp a few hundred yards on on the further side, and after we had unrolled our blankets and pegged out our claims, and put the pots on to boil, we gathered our towels together and went down and had a real good bathe. The water was cool and delicious, and but for the presence of the armed Askari, who stood [165] guard on the hank, we might almost for that brief space of time have forgotten that we were—prisoners.

The only habitation near our camping-place was a curious circular hut formed of three walls, one within the other, with entrances in each. It was rather like a maze in construction, and the whole was covered in with a single large thatched roof. The owner was a very dark-skinned native with a prominent nose and filed teeth. He was a powerfully-built man, and looked an ugly customer.

On our approach all his chickens had been driven into the interior of the hut, and it was only after a lot of bargaining that we obtained a few skinny specimens for the pot. When the bargain was concluded the rest of the fowls were let out again, and we saw to our chagrin that among them were several much finer and fatter than those we had been allowed to buy.

Next morning we again started early, and were soon out of the hill-country and travelling over the plain to the southward. Here the going was much easier, for it lay over a wide level path which might almost have been termed a road if compared with the goat-tracks of the last three days. The hills through which we had come were absolutely wild, and abandoned to the big game with which they swarmed. We had seen no trace of human habitation save only the huts at our camping-places, but now signs of comparative civilisation and cultivation appeared. In the early afternoon we reached a large prosperous-looking village situated at the [166] foot of a range of hills running north and south. This was Kidote.

Eastward, stretching out towards the far distant sea, lay a great plain, wild and desolate, covered with long rank grass and reeds, the monotonous distance only broken here and there by a solitary stunted tree. A broad, well-kept road bordered by custard-apple, mango and small cocoanut-trees ran down the centre of the village.

We camped in an enclosure specially reserved for passing safaris . There was a hut built of reed and bamboo for Europeans, but though comfortable it was small, and could only accommodate two persons, so the men took possession of another intended for the storing of baggage and lit their fire in the open. Just beside the enclosure was a stream which came tumbling down over huge boulders from the hills, forming numerous bright cascades and small pools, before it finally reached the level and went wandering out into the dreary plain. The water was very clear and cool, and we hugely enjoyed our evening bathe.

A German missionary from a station a little way off in the hills came down to visit Ellersdorf, and brought us some green vegetables, which were a great treat.

On the following morning, after travelling for about two hours, we came to a river too deep and wide to ford. This was the Ruhaha, which, after running through the plain to the eastward, flows into the Rufigi some miles above its mouth. Some authorities assert that the last-named should only [167] be called the Rufigi after its junction with the Ruhaha, and that above that point its rightful name is the Ulanga.

There was a ferryman’s hut on the bank of this river, and we were ferried across in a large canoe fashioned from a single tree-trunk. Although it looked unwieldy this type of canoe is very light, and the boatmen seemed to handle it with the greatest ease. It was necessary to make two trips of it, and for the first the canoe was loaded up with our porters and baggage. Thereupon it promptly sank to within a few inches of the gunwale! But the passage, although it looked rather dangerous, was accomplished without mishap. Then we embarked with our guard, and as there were no seats we had to squat down in the bottom for fear of over-balancing the canoe. The current ran strongly, and the boatmen paddled gently up-stream for some little way before pushing out for the opposite shore, but they judged the distance so well that we grounded without difficulty at the appointed spot on the opposite bank.

After crossing the Ruhaha we followed a road which on our right hand skirted the hills, while on our left stretched the vast, monotonous plain. Four hours’ steady march brought us to a mill—a real European mill—worked by a running stream and used for the cleaning of rice. This district is noted for its rice, and the plain is covered with great patches of it, which, tended by the natives, appears to flourish exceedingly. The place was called Solwa, but whether that was the name of the district or only of the mill I cannot say. Alongside lay a big rubber-plantation, also, I believe, the property of the owner of the mill. All the trees were fairly young, but many of them had been tapped. It would seem that the plantation was just coming to its prime when the outbreak of war put a stop to all work thereon, for the coolies were commandeered by the Government, and the owner himself called up. When I saw it, it was already so choked by weeds and undergrowth that it would cost a small fortune to get it cleared again.

Ellersdorf had intended to halt here, and we were all looking forward to a rest and a bathe in the millstream when a German appeared and persuaded him to go on a little further to his shamba . This [169] man, whose name was Kruger, was acting as manager for the owner, and had so far escaped military service. His shamba was only about two miles away, but to us, footsore and weary as we were, the distance seemed more than double. The rubber-plantation extended for about a mile along the foot of the hills, then came a stretch of jungle, then another strip of rubber-trees. Eventually we halted before a house built of brick, situated on a rise commanding a fine view over the plains. Just behind it the hills rose to a great height, and near their summit was a wonderful waterfall. It came down in a great glittering sheet fully a hundred yards in extent, and it was so high up that its roar was almost inaudible. We had noticed the sunlight reflected from it as we came along, but the stream was so steady and so vast that we could hardly believe that it was really water. But it was . Pure sparkling spring-water, and, moreover, some of the very best we encountered on safari . It ran behind the house in a crystal river, and not only did we drink it unboiled in huge draughts, but we had a glorious bathe in it. Gushing straight from the rock, it was so cold that it made one gasp.

We were all accommodated on the wide baraza of the house, and I was invited to dine with the manager and Ellersdorf. The former put up quite a good dinner. True, the ubiquitous chicken and rice formed the staple dish, but the chicken was very different in quality to what we had been accustomed to living on on our march, and the [170] rice, although I was heartily sick of rice, was delicious—large white grains which melted in the mouth. Kruger told us that this was considered the best rice district in the Colony, and before we left we got two loads of it to take with us, leaving in exchange the small hard, half-cleaned stuff which had been served out to us, and which our host said would do for his fowls.

At dinner he provided a bottle of whisky—pre-war stuff and not Ersatz —and after dinner he produced some of the local Kummel . Ellersdorf drank very little, and we rallied him on the fact that although he came from Munich he could yet stand so little liquor. But Kruger, overjoyed at having company—a rare event in his solitary existence—was determined to make a night of it, so for long I sat up with him, helping to finish the Kummel , and discussing many things. Only the subject of war was avoided, and in spite of the fact that theoretically we were enemies, we spent a very pleasant evening.

Next morning, after an early breakfast, we took the road again. This day’s march lay through a true tropical forest of tall trees interlaced and often half-strangled by festoons of creepers and climbing plants. Again the spoor of elephants was frequently to be seen, and though we caught no glimpse of the great beasts themselves, we passed several native clearings which had been devastated and laid waste by them. Banana-plants were torn down, uprooted, chewed and tossed aside, and in one small village, deserted by its inhabitants, even [171] the huts had been trampled flat. I was told that quite frequently the natives in these parts were forced to abandon their huts and clearings in the forest and fly before the depredations of a herd of elephants, who simply took possession of a place and refused to be scared away. It reminded me of Kipling’s story of “Letting in the Jungle”—

Almost, in fancy, one could see the mighty grey forms of Hathi, the king-elephant, and his three sons gloating over the ruin they had wrought! Nor were the Bandar-Log, the monkey-people, missing, for they jabbered at us from the branches overhead, and as we came nearer swung off into the depths of the forest chattering angrily. It was most amusing to see them jump not only from branch to branch but from tree to tree, in which fashion they manage to travel at a great rate without ever coming to the ground.

The forest-glades were alive with butterflies of every hue, some of them barbaric in the splendour of their colouring.

That day we camped at a small village called Kiberege, and a special enclosure was placed at our disposal. A little stream of water ran close by, but was too muddy and uninviting-looking to tempt us to bathe.

During our journey I was in the habit of serving [172] out quinine to the prisoners every evening, for they had no beds or even nets, and the country through which we were travelling was full of malaria-bearing mosquitoes. I had with me two bottles of quinine solution which I had brought from Tabora. It was made from the powder sent in by the British Government, and I had asked to be allowed to take a pound of that powder with me, but this the authorities said they could not permit without leave from the officials at Morogoro. At the latter place I mentioned the matter, and was promised that, as I should have under my charge at Mahenge half the total number of prisoners for whose benefit it had been sent, half the total quantity received should be forwarded to me. But it never turned up, and later on at Mahenge we were so badly in need of it that I only wished I had insisted and taken possession of the stuff by fair means or foul.

That night at Kiberege we witnessed a native dance. It was the headman, dignified by the title of “Sultan,” who arranged it for our—or rather Ellersdorf’s—edification, and his small son was master of the ceremonies and beat the “first drum,” while a number of women and youths jogged slowly round in a circle, singing a monotonous chant to the beat of the tom-toms. It was a very tame affair—only the fitful flickering firelight lent it a touch of glamour.

The next day was June 8th, and also the eighth of our journeying. By this time we were all feeling very fit owing to the fresh air and exercise; [173] so much so that we were quite enjoying our safari , and not at all looking forward to reaching Mahenge, when we should be shut up in camp once more. We travelled now through some lovely scenery; forest-scrub alternated with grass-land, while here and there we came on a village with its patch of cultivated ground. At times the road lay through the plain, at others it climbed over small hills from whence we could see to the distant horizon, and ever on our right towered the range of mountains we had been skirting for three days past. From the short grass towards their crests the granite outcrop rose in massy bastions against the turquoise sky, while the lower slopes were covered with fine trees and shrubs. Here and there along the ridge the beginnings of small streams could be discerned, and these, gathering in volume as they flowed downwards, sometimes ran bubbling right across our path. Often they were too wide to jump, and had to be crossed by slippery stepping-stones. I remember one of them was quite a considerable stream, with the stepping-stones set at irregular distances and all sorts of impossible angles. Many and various were the methods we adopted in negotiating this obstacle; one would jump boldly from stone to stone, intent only on getting across as quickly as possible; another would step gingerly from foothold to foothold until, coming to a place he could not take in his stride, he would pause and carefully judge the distance before gathering himself together for the necessary spring, with the result that, from nervousness and over-caution, he [174] lost his balance in landing, and, to our great amusement, executed a frantic two-step on the slippery stone before regaining equilibrium and courage for the next step. One of the Askaris, having got half-way across without any difficulty, suddenly lost his nerve and was reduced to literally crawling on hands and knees for the rest of the way, amid the delighted and derisive shouts of his companions. The porters carrying their loads on their heads took the safer course right through the water, holding on to a rope of creeper which had been stretched across the stream. It was just at the end of the rainy season and the current ran strongly, at times swirling up to their armpits; but they did not seem to mind a wetting, and their scanty clothing soon dried again.

That night we slept at a small village called Saka Maganga, and the next day a walk of about five hours brought us to Ifakara, a large settlement near the banks of the Ulanga, one of the main tributaries of the Rufigi river. Here there is a big mission station, and when we were settled in our camp Ellersdorf went off to visit the missionaries, returning later with some fish, both fresh and dried. This was a welcome change of diet; it was, in fact, the first fish I had tasted since I was captured, and though rather muddy in flavour, it was greatly appreciated. The headman of the village also brought us some madafu —young unripe cocoanuts which have no nut or kernel, and are full of an opalescent fluid delightfully cool and refreshing to drink.

June 10th we rested at Ifakara—a welcome change after walking for nine days on end. It was very hot, and we spent most of the time in very undress uniform lounging under the trees or in our huts. We did not bathe, for the river was nearly an hour’s walk from the camp, and, moreover, it was full of crocodiles. Only a few days before our arrival a native woman had been seized and dragged under by one of the brutes when she was drawing water from the bank.

In the village there were several stores kept by Indians, and I took a walk round and was able to buy some (very inferior) cigarettes and tobacco for my fellow-prisoners and myself. We were also lucky in that we were able to buy some coarse brown sugar from an Indian factory which I visited. The cane cut into short lengths was here passed between two upright wooden rollers, and as the juice was squeezed out it was collected and transferred to a large shallow evaporating-pan, beneath which was a small fire. The sugar thus obtained was offered for sale in large sticky lumps at the price of one rupee per kilo—about 8d. a pound—but there was no attempt at refining.

On the morning of the 11th we started off for the Ulanga. We passed several native shambas , as well as a large Government experimental plantation, where a number of cocoanut-trees seemed to be thriving well, and then we entered a swampy region where coarse reeds grew far above our heads, and about three-quarters of an hour later the track suddenly disappeared under water, and we were [176] told we would have to wade until we came to the canoes which awaited us further on. Slinging shoes and stockings round our necks, and rolling our trousers well above our knees, we started off, and had to wade for nearly a mile before we reached the canoes. Accompanied by our guard, we got into one of them while the porters with their loads got into the other. The floods had not subsided, and we were still some distance from the actual river-bank. The boatmen pulled through the waving reeds, disturbing flocks of wild-fowl, ducks, geese, pelicans and flamingoes. When at length the canoes shot out into the stream the poles were discarded for paddles. Half-way across we saw two crocodiles lying asleep on a mud bank, and Ellersdorf borrowed one of the Askari’s rifles and had a shot at one. Both brutes reared into the air and then plunged into the water, but we could not tell if he had hit the one he aimed at, for they are usually able to escape in this manner even if mortally wounded.

The opposite bank of the river was above flood-level, so we were able to land on dry ground. Then we had a long tiring march over a track of dried mud which had quite recently been under water. It was pitted with great holes made by the elephants and rhinos when the soil was still soft, and now baked hard in the sun. Often we could only proceed by stepping from one ridge to another over the huge hoof-marks, many of them two feet deep. Finally, after a weary, monotonous tramp, we reached our camping-place, a small village called Mavimba.

The only water available here was drawn from holes in the ground and was far from clear. We were told it was quite good, but we took the precaution of boiling it before use.

When Ellersdorf and I were sitting smoking in the moonlight after supper two natives arrived, bringing a large bunch of bananas, a present from the chief of a neighbouring village. This fruit, known locally as the “elephant banana,” is about eighteen inches long and three inches in diameter. It is very coarse and tasteless, but not unpalatable when fried or roasted over the fire.

The next morning about two hours’ walk brought us to the village of the chief in question—the Sultan Kari Moto. He was a tall, stout old fellow, and came out to meet us clad in a long white kanzu , wearing a red fez on his woolly head, and supporting himself on a long staff. He was accompanied by his chief men, and had a long conversation with Ellersdorf while we sat under the trees and were regaled with more bananas—but the smaller and nicer ones this time.

Then we started off again, and soon found ourselves among the foothills in the neighbourhood of Mahenge. We had to cross several streams by means of frail, insecure-looking bamboo bridges which sagged in the middle, slanted at all angles, and swayed beneath our weight. They looked so precarious that West, who was being carried in a masheela , deemed it wisest to get out and trust to his own feet in crossing them.

Once from a ridge we caught a glimpse of the [178] Boma of Mahenge perched on the summit of a high hill in the far distance.

That night our camp was far away from any village, but some bamboo huts had been erected near a stream for the benefit of passing safaris , and we had with us all that we needed, including the inevitable fowls, which, bought at the last halting-place, had been carried, squawking, tied to the porters’ loads.

I remember it was very still that night; the silence only broken by the crackling of the fire, and now and then by the eerie, menacing roar of a prowling lion.

On the next morning, June 13th, we began our last days’ safari . The first half of the journey lay through rolling foothills where bamboos grew in profusion, but presently the gradient grew steeper, and the track wound up almost vertically through great scattered boulders. It was worthy to be called mountaineering, for it was a stiff climb, but as we got higher and higher the view proved well worth the exertion. The whole extent of the great plain lay spread out below us, and we could see right away to the River Ulanga and beyond it to the distant horizon.

At length, panting, we reached the summit and threw ourselves down beside a little running stream to regain our breath. Some minutes later West appeared, being pulled up by two natives and pushed behind by a third. He had had to abandon his masheela and tackle the climb on his own feet.

Presently the Askaris put on their packs and [179] blankets, which had hitherto been carried by the porters, and smartened themselves for the inspection which lay before them. Then we started off across the plain to the village and Boma of Mahenge. On the way we passed a large brick church and another building surrounded by a cluster of native huts; this was a leper colony run by the mission fathers. There are many lepers in Africa. Then we came to a long straggling street of mud-huts and adobe houses, and finally halted before the great stone-built Boma which, situated on a small hill, commands extensive views across the plain.

Here the Kommandant, Major von Grawert, came out to inspect us. He spoke a few words to Ellersdorf, who stood rigidly to attention, and then conducted us downhill to our camp. I gathered that we were the first arrivals; the other two parties who had travelled via Iringa from Kilimatinde had not yet arrived.

At the first sight of our new place of captivity our hearts sank within us. Imagine four long, low cattle-sheds, built of mud, and thatched with grass, forming a square with a single entrance on one side. There were no partitions to divide them up, but the wall which gave on to the central enclosure was pierced here and there with openings to serve for windows and doors. The floor was of beaten earth and the walls were still damp, as the building had only just been completed. There was no furniture of any kind.

I was better off than the others, for I had my bed with me, but they had to spread their blankets on [180] the bare earth with nothing but a layer of grass beneath them, and they had to cook their own meals and eat them off the ground.

Ellersdorf had expected to return as soon as he had safely conducted us to our destination, but Von Grawert insisted on his staying on in charge of us until the other prisoners and their guard arrived, and so long as he remained I had my meals with him. A partition was put up in one of the sheds to make a private room for me, and for a rupee I managed to get a small stool in the village.

At sunset on that high plateau the temperature falls several degrees, and at night the atmosphere in the damp huts was bitterly cold and miserable—as a result of which I developed severe neuralgia. I could not go outside the camp, as I was not allowed my parole. Herr von Grawert refused the responsibility, saying he knew nothing of any previous arrangement, and that I must await the arrival of Oberleutenant Colzau, who would decide all details connected with the prison camp.

On June 15th Colzau and his convoy arrived, and the next day the batch from Tabora turned up in charge of Herr Kendrick. Thus our numbers were complete.

After Ellersdorf left I had to shift for myself, and Perks being among Colzau’s crowd, he and I agreed to mess together. As we had to prepare and cook our own meals, it was lucky that he had a cooking-pot with him.

There were, as I have already said, no beds provided for the prisoners at Mahenge; those who [181] came from Tabora had brought theirs along with them, but of Colzau’s lot more than half had been instructed to leave theirs behind on account of the difficulty in getting porters, and on the understanding that others would be forthcoming at the new camp. It was not, I think, Colzau’s fault, but Von Grawert disclaimed all responsibility, and said he had been given to understand they would bring their own beds.

Among the last comers there were several who were so ill that they had to be carried into camp, and I had to go round and arrange for these to have such beds as were available, and even so there were not enough for all those who so badly needed them. The fit men had simply to spread their mattresses on the ground.

With all these new patients thrown on my hands my small stock of quinine was soon exhausted—and every day there were fresh cases. The average daily list of men actually in bed with high fever was from thirty to thirty-five, in addition to convalescents who still needed the drug to complete their treatment. When I found that the promised supply had never reached Iringa, I at once wrote off to the authorities at Tabora and in the meantime drew on the meagre store in the Boma dispensary. On June 29th one bottle of quinine solution arrived, but that was soon exhausted, and, as shortly afterwards all communication with Tabora was cut off, we were unable to obtain any more.

Herr Stabsarzt Schönebeck, the medical officer at Mahenge, allowed me the use of his microscope, [182] so I was able to take blood-slides of all the cases, which was a great help to accurate diagnosis. I discovered that many of the men were suffering from Tick-fever, but we were able to do very little to relieve them, as we had no salvarsan, and quinine is of no use in the treatment of this disease. Fortunately it is what is termed “self-limited”—which means that patients get rid of it without treatment in the course of a few months, but while it is still active they suffer from very high fever and feel extremely ill and miserable. The poor chaps had to put up with very primitive nursing, for we had no sisters at Mahenge, and I had little time to give to them individually. I appointed a stoker Petty Officer to be my assistant, and it was his duty to go round and take temperatures and issue the fruit which was occasionally sent up from the mission. Further, he had to superintend the cooking of the broth or soup, which was all we had to offer to those who could not manage the ordinary rations. The problem of feeding fever-patients was the most difficult I had to tackle—and it was never solved. The ordinary ration was distasteful enough to a man in health, and of what use to offer it to one tossing in high fever, racked with headache and prostrate with vomiting? But what had I to substitute? Milk was unobtainable, eggs scarce. Occasionally, but by no means every day, half a dozen eggs would be issued to me for distribution to the sick, and then the difficulty was to decide who should have them. If a man was very bad we reserved the lot for him, but if there [183] was no one patient worse than another we had to divide them up as equally as we could.

I was allowed a portion of meat and some bones to make soup, and sometimes was fortunate enough to get a few vegetables to add to it, and after a time I got the Oberleutenant to allow me a native boy to watch the hospital fire and boil the soup.

Herr Schönebeck drew up a scheme with me to enable us to apply the existing stock of quinine to the best advantage and to make it go as far as possible. As the drug was so precious I kept the issue of it in my own hands. It was impossible to give it as freely as we should have wished, so we had to plan to give it in each case at the moment when it would exert the maximum effect—namely, just before the expected paroxysm.

The food at Mahenge kept us alive, and that is all that can be said for it. In quantity it was usually, but not invariably, sufficient, but the quality was beyond description! The meat issued to us was the flesh of cattle which had been brought through the plains from Kilimatinde or Kilossa. Now, those plains swarm with the tse-tse fly, and by the time the cattle arrived they were all infected and quickly wasted to mere skeletons. The butcher used to go round the herd and select for slaughter such beasts as seemed in any case unlikely to live another day, and on this meat we had to feed! Naturally there was not a bit of fat to it, and however cooked it was always tough; but strange to say there were no ill effects from eating it. Wonderful what the human stomach can assimilate and draw nourishment from under some circumstances! Apart from this diseased meat our staple diet was rice—and rice of very poor quality, varied by dried beans. About once a week we had green vegetables, chiefly cabbage grown in the mission garden, and such of us as had money could buy extra vegetables and fruit. Bananas were cheap and fairly plentiful, but it required a very big [185] supply to provide for 103 prisoners, in addition to the ordinary population of the place and a greatly increased community of Germans. The price of the bananas was three for a heller—the hundredth part of a rupee, which works out at about fifteen for a penny. On the other hand, cocoanuts which had to be imported from the coast districts (as the few palms in the plain did not flourish well) were expensive, about twopence to fourpence each.

In the other camps I had always been allotted a native boy to cook for me but at Mahenge this was at first denied me, and it was only by dint of continual badgering that I got one in the end, and then I had to pay him myself, although previously he had always been paid by the Government.

One Sunday, a day or two after the arrival of the Tabora crowd, we were for some unknown reason entirely neglected. We had made our breakfast off mealy pap and coffee, and were awaiting expectantly the usual morning issue of rations, but time went on and they did not materialise. After a while we managed to attract the attention of the guard at the gate—this happened to be Müller, our old enemy at Kilimatinde. He said the cattle had not been slaughtered as yet, but that we should get our meat in good time. So, getting more hungry every hour, we waited until past midday, while the cooks of the various messes searched for scraps left over from previous meals.

Again we appealed to Müller; he said he had no orders. We asked to see the Kommandant, and [186] were informed we could not see him till the next day. Finally Müller consented to issue some rice and flour for bread-making. Perks and I set to work to try and dodge up some kind of a meal. We had an old bone which had been stewed the day before to make soup and had luckily not been thrown away; this we put into the pot with some water and rice, and the resultant mixture—poor stuff, as you may imagine—formed our first course; then we filled up with boiled rice. For supper we had rice again, after regretfully deciding that the bone had already worked overtime and would serve no more!

That afternoon we held a mass meeting in the camp and concocted a strong letter to Major von Grawert, which we persuaded Müller to send up to the Boma. We put in a few references to German Kultur , and in a sense it did the trick, for it brought the Herr Major down raving like a mad bull! Attended by his satellites, he stamped round the camp, refusing to listen to any complaints. I tackled him just as he was about to leave, and, crimson in the face, incoherent with rage, he nearly jumped down my throat! But I held my ground, and told him that the camp was a disgrace to any European nation. Further, that I had hitherto always been treated as an officer, and given a servant to wait on me, and never had I been put to live in a cattle-pen! At this he literally foamed at the mouth, raved of the treatment he declared had been meted out to the Germans in the Cameroons, and ended up by the assertion that we ought to [187] think ourselves lucky to be treated so well! So that was that !

Next morning Colzau came down and said that the Major had been much annoyed (save the mark!) at the letter we had dared to send, and had decreed that we were to go without meat for three days as a punishment. Two days previously I had asked to be allowed out on parole, and Colzau now turned to me and asked if I associated myself with the charges in the letter. I replied most emphatically in the affirmative. “In that case,” he said, “I am afraid the Herr Major will not grant your parole.” Then I am afraid I lost my temper, and I said—among other things—“Tell the Herr Major he can go to —— before I will ask him to grant me parole. I only ask favours of gentlemen !”

On the following day a notice was displayed in the camp stating that any meeting or assembly of persons, or the writing of a letter of complaint by a committee of persons, constituted a mutiny according to Prussian military law, and rendered the ringleader liable to three years’, and the participants to six months’ imprisonment.

At 1 a.m. on June 30th Goddard, of the Loyal North Lancashires, died of blackwater-fever after a very short illness. All the prisoners, who were fit to do so, followed his body to the little cemetery on the side of the hill, and Brother John, a member of the English mission working in German East Africa, who had accompanied the men from Tabora to look after their spiritual welfare, read the service [188] over his grave. Later the Germans raised a cross to Goddard’s memory. I saw it before I left.

As a result of this death Colzau was at some pains to effect an improvement in the camp, and he issued extra blankets, and got beds made for those who had none.

About this time a French officer, the Count de l’E——, joined our mess. He had been shooting in the Congo at the outbreak of war, and had joined up with the Belgian forces and subsequently been captured at Lake Tanganyika. I had made his acquaintance at Tabora. He had his own “boy” with him, and, as a few days later I was also allowed a servant, things were much more comfortable.

We obtained permission to buy extras from the German mission, and were able to get such things as green vegetables, fruit, sausages, syrup, home-made vinegar and candles. The latter were a great boon, although, being made from animal fat and beeswax, they gave about as much light as the old-fashioned tallow dip; still, they enabled us to have a game of bridge in the evenings.

They had a lot of English books at the German mission, and these we were allowed to borrow. One of the Fathers spoke English perfectly, and was very friendly to us. It appeared that he had been in a mission in South Africa for some years, and before that had worked near Birmingham. He would, I believe, have done whatever he could for us, but he told us it was very difficult to do anything, as the Boma officials were so very suspicious of anyone who showed interest in the welfare of the [189] prisoners—their suspicion being directed even to their own countrymen.

On July 5th, Krum, in company with an officer and eighty Askaris, left for the front. He came to bid us good-bye, and with a sly wink showed us an enormous white pocket-handkerchief, which he said would come in very handy when he met the British!

On the 11th arrived four fresh prisoners—South Africans—captured near the Central Railway. They confirmed the rumour of the death of Lord Kitchener, which up to then we had refused to believe. But they also gave us the most encouraging reports of the progress of our troops in the Colony. The Count wagers we’ll all be free before September!

At about this time the health of the camp was simply appalling. On July 23rd one of the prisoners had a bad attack of cerebral malaria, and he was unconscious for two days, and when he regained consciousness he was completely out of his mind. However, he fortunately recovered entirely in about a week.

It was a common thing to see men swaying on their feet and falling down from sheer weakness while trying to cross the yard to the latrines. The sanitary arrangements at the camp were a scandal and a disgrace, and although I repeatedly drew the attention of the authorities to this fact, nothing was ever done to improve matters. We had a few sporadic cases of dysentery and typhoid, but it is nothing less than a miracle that we did not have a dangerous epidemic. The sandy earth was full of [190] “jiggers”—the female of which pestilential insect gets under one’s skin and there incubates her eggs, giving rise to small blebs which readily suppurate, and if neglected cause severe blood-poisoning. Many of the men being in the habit of going about shoeless, either to save their footgear or because they had none, fell easy victims to the “jiggers”; I, too, although I never went about without my boots, got several in my feet. The natives were very expert in extracting these insects, and I got the “boys” to do all the cases.

On August 4th it was rumoured that we were to be moved; our destination was supposed to be a secret, but in conversation with Dr. Schönebeck I discovered that we were to be sent to Uteti on the Rufigi river. He let this out by accident, and at the time I made no remark, pretending not to have noticed his slip; but later I asked innocently: “Is it true that we are to go to Uteti?” He looked at me suspiciously. “What makes you think that?” he asked. “Oh,” I replied airily, “some people seem to think that that is where we shall go, and I was only thinking that I ought to have a store of drugs to take with us.” Then he said: “I am not allowed to tell you where you are being sent, but all arrangements in respect of drugs, etc., will be made.”

The exodus started on the very next day, the prisoners being divided up into four parties, each with its own guard, and there was an interval of one day between the setting out of each party. My two messmates went with the first, so I [191] was left alone, it having been decreed that I should accompany the last safari , which consisted of all the old crocks and invalids. As my “boy” was not to go with us, a Belgian Askari was deputed to take his place, and act as my servant. This man, whose name was Aona, was thickly and solidly built; he had a very black skin, and owing to his tattoed face and filed teeth his appearance was rather repulsive until one got accustomed to it. The tattooing was not done with pigments, which would not show up well on a dark skin; the design was outlined in small punctate scars. His front teeth, filed to a sharp point, indicated that he belonged to a tribe who had at one time been cannibals. He was a very taciturn fellow, and his knowledge of Swahili was limited, though he could speak it when he chose; but his method of conversation was mainly confined to clicking with his tongue, or grunting to indicate affirmation or negation. At first I was often uncertain if he had understood my orders, but in time, when he got to know my ways, he proved himself an admirable servant. On arrival in camp he would hunt out the porters who had my bed and boxes, get the former set up and the latter deposited close by, cook my food, lay the table and serve up, all without any supervision at all. This was rather surprising when one realised that he had never acted as servant before. At first I had been of the opinion that he would consider it a degradation to undertake such work, he being a fighting man and used in his own country to have his food prepared for him by the women, but in time I think he took a [192] pride in serving me; and he had only one grievance, which was that on safari he was required to take his turn with the other Belgian Askaris in carrying Colzau’s chair. I tried to get him excused this duty, but the Oberleutenant would not hear of it; so Aona, when the safari started, would take my water-bottle and stick, and march a few paces behind me in the hope that Colzau’s chair would go ahead, which it sometimes did, and then he would swank along the road to his heart’s content—no man’s “porter,” but in the proud position of officer’s body-servant! In spite of the fact that he and his fellows were treated by the Germans with surprising leniency, his contempt for them was immense. When Aona, together with several others, had been captured in the fighting on the Lake in the early days of the war, the Huns had tried to induce them to enlist under the German flag, but without success.

My party, the fourth and last, left Mahenge on Friday, August 11th. There were about sixteen of us, all sick with the exception of myself and B——, a Russian Jew, who was to act as caterer and supervise the cooking. B—— had had a small plantation near Moschi and was interned at Tabora early in the war, but I never knew why he was not left there with the other civilians instead of being taken south with the military prisoners.

Most of our sick had to be carried in their beds, and it was a most difficult job to get them safely down the precipitous boulder-strewn track to the plain. The porters were all raw natives unused to [193] carrying, and Colzau, who was in charge of the party, went on ahead, leaving B—— and myself to superintend the transport of the beds and get them down the hillside as best we could. He knew that all the patients were much too ill to attempt to escape, so the guard was comparatively lax. Those of the men who were in any way capable of the effort got out and walked, supported by the natives, while the others were ordered to hang on to their beds as tight as they could. At the roughest bits of the track B—— and I walked—or rather climbed—alongside each bed, and it was lucky we did so, otherwise some of the occupants would assuredly have been flung out. Once, when the stumbling, slipping porters entirely lost their footing, I was just able to grab their helpless human burden in time to save him from a nasty fall. This bit of the track was not more than half a mile long, but it was over an hour before all the beds were safely down, and I felt quite exhausted though the journey had barely begun.

Our route was familiar to me, being the same by which I had come to Mahenge, but it was new to the majority who had travelled via Iringa. Our first camp was at Fimbo, the next at Mavimba, and finally we came to the Ulanga and arrived in Ifakara, where we were allowed a day’s rest. I noticed that the road had been considerably widened and improved since I had traversed it in June, and it was now possible to march four abreast instead of in Indian file. Now, too, there was a German, a sort of transport officer, in charge of [194] each camp, and the accommodation had been increased. New huts capable of housing about two thousand natives had been built, and large stores of grain and rice were held in reserve. It was evident that everything had been prepared for a retreat southward should the occasion arise.

This time, fortunately for my patients, the passage of the Ulanga was much easier, for the summer floods had subsided, and one could see from bank to bank, so no wading was necessary.

At Ifakara we were given some fish, both fresh and dried, and the latter we took along with us. It smelt very high, but it was quite eatable when cooked, and proved a welcome addition to our monotonous fare. We were allowed to go to the Government shamba , where we picked a bag of limes. I concocted a special dish of boiled rice with native sugar, some grated cinnamon, and the juice of a lime squeezed over all. It was very popular, as before the discovery of the appetising properties of cinnamon and lime, the rice had always been looked upon with extreme disfavour, and only eaten to still the pangs of a very real hunger.

On Tuesday, August 15th, we were on the road a few minutes before seven o’clock; the sun was already up, but the distance to be travelled was not great—about twenty kilometres or less. We had had some coffee and mealy pap before starting, and that day we breakfasted en route off some cold meat, coffee, and bread, which we took with us. This plan proved so satisfactory that we adopted it [195] for the remainder of the safari . We arrived at our camp at Saka Maganga about a quarter of an hour before noon, and found that a large new bamboo hut had been prepared for us.

The next morning we were off again soon after 6 a.m., and in spite of a short halt for breakfast, arrived in Kiberege about 10.30 a.m.

I may here state that owing to Colzau’s leniency the movements of our particular party were quite independent of the rest of the safari . It was this comparative freedom of movement that made our roadside breakfasts possible. Naturally there was no fear of our invalids attempting to escape, and as B—— and I had given our word of honour not to try to do so, we were not encumbered with a guard. Colzau did not mind how we travelled so long as we turned up all right at the next camping-place, and he used to go in his chair, refusing to worry about any details, all of which were left to Wierick, the ex-sailor, who usually brought up the tail of the column.

Thursday, the 17th, was a long day. Starting at 6.30 a.m., we did not get into camp until one o’clock, and the porters with some of the bad cases did not arrive until nearly two. Our halting-place was at the mill, Solwa, where I and the small party under Ellersdorf had stopped on the way up. We were told to put our beds in the mill building, which was just large enough to accommodate us all comfortably, and I and all the others who were fit for it had a plunge in the stream—the first really good bath we had had for a long time.

That night Aona told me that we should go no further—an opinion which I found was shared by the rest of the “boys.” Hamisi, Wierick’s servant, had been employed in the emergency typhoid hospital at Kilimatinde, so he knew me well, and frequently gave me much interesting information about the progress of the war in the Colony. That night he assured me that the British had taken Morogoro and were advancing on Kissaki, which was on our route to Uteti, and, according to him, the other safaris were all hung up at Kidote, a day’s march further on, and not allowed to proceed. There was a horrid rumour that we should return to Mahenge but, frankly, I did not believe it. Later I got an opportunity of talking to Wierick, and I questioned him casually about the morrow’s programme—times of starting, arrival in Kidote, etc. He was very uncommunicative, but that night I went to sleep prepared to bet that we should not return to Mahenge.

Next morning we had a more substantial breakfast than usual, and did not make an early start. When the porters came in and began collecting the loads and mustering outside, we lounged about and watched keenly—but with assumed indifference—to see if they would be sent off on the road to Kidote or turned back towards Mahenge. At last they were all ready, and on the word of command they lifted their loads and—took the backward road! Imagine our dismay!

He shrugged his shoulders: “I don’t know. Perhaps—perhaps only as far as Ifakara.”

He added that he was remaining behind until the first safaris —then at Kidote—had returned. As he kept all the Belgian Askaris with him I lost Aona, but luckily B—— had his own “boy” with him so I was not doomed to do my own cooking again—a task to which I never took kindly. B——’s “boy” was his own servant, who had been with him on his plantation, and served him throughout his imprisonment, enduring many hardships and trials on his master’s account.

We all started off in very low spirits. Our recollections of Mahenge were not pleasant, and the thought of returning to those cattle-sheds, and the overlordship of Major von Grawert, was bitter indeed.

Up to this time the patients had made wonderful strides, and many of them were so far recovered that they were able to march a good stretch of each day’s safari , but now we all tacitly decided that if we had to return to Mahenge we would in any case not walk there! All the patients took to their beds and were carried, and B—— and I also refused to walk any further, so poles were tied to camp chairs and extra porters engaged to carry us.

That afternoon B—— and I went to the Government shamba , and as Colzau had given us permission to take what fruit we wanted, we enlisted the services of a small native boy to climb a palm and cut down some madafu , or unripe cocoanuts. This he only consented to do after we had assured him that we had the permission of the Bwana Kubwa . Nevertheless, when we returned to camp the German in charge there saw the boy, called him over to his hut, and after questioning him ordered him to be kibokoed —flogged with a hide whip. When we saw this we went over and enquired what this punishment was for. The German replied that it was for gathering nuts without leave. Indignantly we explained that we had Oberleutenant Colzau’s permission to take the nuts, and only on our assurance of this had the boy consented to assist us. But the brute would not hear reason; he said the boy should have come first to him for permission, which would not have been refused, and since he did not do so he must be punished. With some heat we pointed out that this was not common justice: but to no avail. It was evident that the amour propre of petty officialdom had been affronted, and the unfortunate child must pay the penalty. There was no official of higher rank in the place to whom to appeal, so we were powerless to interfere, and could only bitterly accuse ourselves for having unwittingly got the wretched boy into such a scrape. The incident [199] must have left in his mind a disastrous impression of British chivalry, a result, no doubt, very gratifying to German mentality!

Next day we once more crossed the Ulanga. There were now at least twenty canoes moored on the Ifakara side of the river, where previously we had never seen more than three. Evidently they were kept in readiness to facilitate, in case of emergency, the rapid transhipment of a large number of men.

At Mavimba we were not expected, and no stores were available, but a ration of biltong was issued to us. Again, at Fimbo, there was no accommodation for the men; the large hut in which they had slept when we were there before was full up with stores. The German in charge wanted to put them in one of the huts used by the porters, but naturally the men objected to this, and I supported their objection on medical grounds, as sleeping-places used by natives would probably be infested with ticks liable to convey tick-fever, so finally they were allowed to sleep in the open.

Wednesday, August 23rd, found us back at Mahenge. En route we had heard that our old camp had been used as a cattle-pen after we had left, but since we found it well swept and garnished on our return it is impossible to say if there was any truth in that statement.

Three days later Müller’s party arrived, and we learned that, while at Solwa mill, three of his prisoners had escaped. These were the two Boers who had made ineffectual bids for liberty at [200] Kilimatinde and Tabora, and the Italian Del Luigi. We were overjoyed at the fact that they had escaped from Müller’s custody, and he was equally chagrined, but he prophesied ghoulishly that they would either be recaptured or die in the Bush. Further, we learned that four others had vanished from the camp at Kidote. They managed this in an ingenious fashion, beautiful in its simplicity. An accomplice went up to the Askari sentry on duty and offered to sell him a piece of sheeting (German property, by the way, but all’s fair in love and war!) Clothing of any description was at a premium in the Colony, and the Askari readily fell into the trap. While he was busy bargaining for the coveted cloth, the four slipped out by the unguarded entrance and disappeared into the darkness!

On the morning after the arrival of Müller’s depleted party, Dr. Schönebeck chaffingly told me that I was making my patients so strong that they were able to run away, but that nevertheless two of them had been recaptured. He would give me no particulars nor tell me the names, and though he strongly affirmed the truth of what he said, I was inclined to think that he had been—well, shall we say, misinformed. Anyway the fugitives never returned to camp, and later I learned from our own people that they had all arrived safely in the British lines.

On the same day I was able to get a few words with Mustapha Muhamed, the hospital attendant at Mahenge. He was by birth half Arab and half [201] Somali, and a British subject, but being in the Colony at the outbreak of war he had been impressed into the German ranks, and, as a man of a certain amount of education, had been put to work in the dispensary. His sympathies were entirely British, and he frequently gave me most interesting information concerning the movements of our troops. From him I learnt that both Morogoro and Kilossa were in our hands.

On the 29th, Colzau and the rest of the prisoners arrived—most of them down with malaria. When we left Mahenge enough quinine was issued to enable each man to have a prophylactic dose on safari until Kidote was reached; there we were told we should get further supplies. As my party never reached that place we had no quinine for the return journey, but the others fared no better, for they were told at Kidote that there was no quinine available for issue to prisoners, and consequently had to make the return journey unfortified against malaria, with the result that fully half of them were suffering from fever when they arrived.

On September 1st a German civilian doctor arrived at the Boma, and with Colzau went round the camp inspecting the sick with a view to deciding how many of them it would be necessary to leave behind when we made our next move. Evidently the Germans believed that Mahenge was threatened and would shortly fall, and it was their intention to remove all the prisoners eastwards into the plain so that they should not fall into British hands.

This doctor, whose name was Wannoch, was a [202] heavy drinker, and he was certainly under the influence of alcohol when he made his round; but his condition being one of maudlin benevolence, he made out a list of some thirty men who were not to be moved. I was sure that the number was far too large, and that Von Grawert would never consent to so many being left behind, and my opinion proved correct. Next morning “Dr. Calomel,” as he was familiarly known in the Colony, again came into the camp, and though he had evidently been drinking, it would appear that this time he had not imbibed sufficient to mellow him, and he was in a very bad temper. It was early in the morning, and I believe he had been severely reprimanded by the Kommandant for the absurd length of his sick list on the previous day; anyway, this time he would exempt no one, and stated that all were fit to travel—which was obviously untrue, for one man was suffering from very bad blackwater-fever, another from a severe attack of dysentery, and a third had badly scalded legs and was unable to walk. I tried to reason with Wannoch, but he was in no condition to hear reason, so I appealed to Colzau, who agreed with me, and suggested that I should write independently to Von Grawert, stating the true facts of the case. This I did, with the result that when we left Mahenge five men remained behind. Of these one died from dysentery the very next day—and yet all had been passed by “Dr. Calomel” as fit to walk!

We had been warned to be ready to start on safari on the morning of Saturday, September 16th, and only two nights before that date five of the prisoners escaped. Their preparations had been made with the utmost secrecy, and not even I knew anything of their plans. In a corner of one of the sheds a hole had been made in the mud wall and hidden by one of the beds, and a tunnel had been constructed through the thorn-bush which was piled all round the outside of the camp buildings. The attempt was timed for about 6 p.m.—between the evening roll-call and the placing of the Askari sentries, who nightly patrolled the four walls of our prison. That evening the roll was called fairly early, and as soon as it was over the adventurers picked up their ready-packed bags, went through the hole, darted across the small space of open ground, and disappeared into the scrub beyond. Had anyone from the Boma been watching that stretch of ground the fugitives must have been spotted, but, as it was, the luck was with them and they got clear away. There was a great element of chance in the whole affair, and they were only just in time, for not ten minutes after the last man had gone through the Askari guard came on duty, [204] and his lynx-eyes instantly detected the trail left by the runaways. He immediately reported to the white guard, and since we in camp could hear all that passed we were in despair, for we felt they were sure to be caught. But instead of at once following up the trail—the obvious thing to do in the circumstances—the Germans came in and proceeded to take the roll-call again, in this way wasting about fifteen minutes in ascertaining which particular prisoners were missing. By the time this was accomplished it was nearly dark, and a very little later it became impossible for even the natives to follow the tracks. So our comrades got away all right—but, alas! their pluck and enterprise availed them nothing, for some time afterwards we heard that four of them were recaptured several miles away, and a fifth died in the bush from blackwater-fever.

The rest of us duly left Mahenge on the Saturday morning, and travelled for two and a half hours in a north-easterly direction. We climbed down from the plateau by a different and less precipitous track than the one by which we had started on our way to Kidote, and on the Monday halted on the banks of a shallow stream. Our camp was merely an enclosure of grass huts or sheds built in the forest and far from any village, but here we remained for six days, and found life more tolerable than we had found it for a long time. The camp was so near the stream that we could bathe every day and all day if we wished, as it was easy for the guard to keep us in view, and this bathing was a great luxury. [205] Also we fared well in the matter of meat, for the forest was full of game, and Müller went shooting daily, always returning with a good bag of antelope, buck, or wild pig.

The reason for our long halt was that Colzau thought he had appendicitis coming on, and was unwilling to wander further into the wilds away from medical aid. Also he was doubtful of the water-supply on the route we were to take. He told me that he had been instructed to escort us to Uteti across the Rufigi plain—a district practically unknown save to a few hunters and old campaigners. He had a sketch-map on which water-holes, etc., were indicated, but since setting out he had heard from a German whom we met on the way, and who had travelled over our destined route several years before, that although there was water to be found, a native of the district was needed to discover the holes, and further, that at many of them there was only water sufficient for fifty men at one time—and here were we numbering over a hundred whites, without counting all the native porters. I don’t wonder Colzau shirked the job!

While we here awaited his successor, a telephone-laying party arrived and passed on towards the plain. They were laying a wire to connect Mahenge with a camp on the Rufigi. The trees were so numerous that it was but rarely necessary to erect poles, the wire being simply stretched from tree to tree and insulated by means of the broken-off necks of old bottles. Some thousands of them [206] must have been utilised in this way, and even before we left Kilimatinde they had become very expensive, the Government offering as much as twenty-five cents apiece for empties.

At this time one of the prisoners developed cerebral malaria, and was unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours. Fortunately I had a few capsules of quinine for injection, and this undoubtedly saved his life.

When Colzau, on account of his appendicitis, returned to Mahenge, I got him to take this man with him.

Freiherr von Neuenstein, an Austrian who had been given the rank of Vize-Feldwebel, arrived on Friday, September 22nd, and took over command of our party, and on the next morning we resumed our travels.

On Sunday we camped on the banks of the River Ulanga, the same that we had crossed previously at Ifakara, but this time we were much lower down. As the water swarmed with crocodiles we could not bathe. That evening Müller had a shot at one which was basking on the opposite bank; it reared up and dived in, but must have been mortally wounded, for it was next day found floating dead on the surface. Müller also shot a hippopotamus out in mid-stream; it sank at once, but the carcase eventually came up and was recovered two days later. This was fortunate, as hippo fat is greatly esteemed for cooking purposes, being in taste not unlike pork. We had mandazes , or rice-cakes, fried in it, and they were delicious.

The next day our route lay for some distance along the banks of the river until we came to the Luwego, another and shallower stream which joins the Ulanga, and the two together eventually flow into the Rufigi. We took off boots and socks and waded across. Even at the deepest part the water did not come above our knees, but the current was very swift—the river-bed full of boulders and sharp stones—and more than one of us came to grief and got a ducking. We camped on the opposite bank, and, as the water was not deep enough to harbour crocodiles, we were able to have a bathe that evening.

Here, too, we found a German lager and telephone-post connected by wire with the force in the neighbourhood of Kissaki, where the Commander-in-Chief, Von Lettow Vorbeck, and the Governor, Dr. Schnee, were then stationed.

Our next camp after this was in the pori , as the natives would say, meaning in the wilderness and far from any habitation. The only water available was drawn from holes in the bed of a dried water-course—the stagnant remains from the previous rainy season, full of rotting leaves, and covered with green scum—and even this was limited in quantity. There were three or four of these holes, the largest being reserved for Europeans, and an Askari guard mounted over it to prevent the porters from washing in it, or otherwise contaminating it. An admirable precaution, but unfortunately no guarantee that some tired and dusty native runner had not enjoyed a dip there a day or two before! [208] However, anyone travelling in Equatorial Africa had best set a curb on his imagination, and leave all æsthetic and other scruples behind him. Water is the first requisite, its colour and consistency a secondary consideration! The Freiherr described this particular vintage as ausgezeichnet , i.e. , excellent, and while I cannot conscientiously endorse that opinion, the coffee made from it was at least drinkable.

On Wednesday, September 27th, we arrived at Madaba, the site of our permanent camp. It is a small native village of poor, mean-looking huts set in a vast rolling plain covered with long elephant-grass and sparsely dotted with stunted trees. A few banana and mango trees and some fields of matama and maize surround the village, but beyond these, far as the eye can see, all is desolate. The country abounds in game, and wild pig, bush buck, elephants, lions, and an occasional rhinoceros may be seen.

Our camp was a very simple affair, just open-fronted shelters built round four sides of a square, with slanting roofs supported on poles and a single wall enclosing all. The sheds were very low, having been constructed by native labour under the direction of an extremely short German, who had evidently considered that his height was normal; but the average man could not stand upright in them.

Here there was a small German outpost, and the doctor in charge proved to be that same Herr Stabsarzt Manteufel whom I had already met at [209] Morogoro. He was one of the very few Germans with the instincts of a white man I had yet come across. In anticipation of fighting in the north along the banks of the Rufigi, he had prepared a small hospital for the reception of Europeans, and I was able to make use of his stores in the treatment of some of my dysentery cases. Further, he replenished my stock of quinine. It was due to Herr Manteufel’s kind offices that I was here allowed my parole—a parole I felt to be especially binding, as, although I had not signed a paper, I knew that he had undertaken to stand surety for my good behaviour; not that he ever even mentioned the subject to me.

The conditions of life at Madaba were most primitive. We lived practically in the open air—no hardship this, rather the reverse, but it forbade any attempt at privacy. The prisoners had to prepare their own food and cook it over an open wood fire—just a bonfire. As a rule each mess possessed only one cooking-pot, so everything had to go in together. For breakfast we had a sort of porridge of mealy-meal—most unpalatable stuff, especially as the sugar supply soon ran out and there was no more to be had. If one felt hungry after the porridge—and one generally did—a piece of dry matama bread was all there was to fill up with. For the midday meal we were supposed to have meat, but it was by no means always available. Madaba is in the heart of the tse-tse fly district, and there are no cattle. Some of the natives kept a few goats, but were very reluctant [210] to part with them; and the game district lies half a day’s journey away, so that even that enthusiastic sportsman Müller did not feel like trekking so far to shoot meat for prisoners. When there was a day’s shooting we had to be content with any bits left over after all the Germans in the place had had their pick, and since they are great meat-eaters little remained for us. Well, when we had meat we were thankful; when we had not we made shift with boiled rice, beans, or chirocco, which latter is a native vegetable somewhat resembling dried peas.

Our evening meal was a repetition of the midday repast, and our drink at all times coffee without either milk or sugar. The only alternative was aqua —by no means pura !—and it was not safe to drink it unless boiled.

You dwellers in the British Isles who, in this year of war, 1918, grumble at a small measure of enforced rationing, and that applied only to a limited number of commodities—pause and consider! Are you indeed so badly off?

Our mornings were spent in cooking and making bread from the meal supplied to us, in which there was not sufficient gluten to make a dough when mixed with water. We had no means of making our bread “rise” except by the use of stale dough, which gave a sour taste to the whole loaf. Then the baking presented many difficulties, for we had no oven, and no means of making one, so the stuff had to be put into a pot, covered with a lid or a piece of sheet iron, and glowing ashes heaped all round and on top of it. Considering all the [211] difficulties, some of the men achieved remarkably good results.

In the afternoons we slept; there was nothing else to do. The few books we possessed had been read and re-read over and over again. Our tempers were so irritable that we could not converse without quarrelling; and, after all, what was there to talk about? The war and its progress in the Colony was the only topic which interested us, and we had had no fresh news for months and months. As day succeeded day our hopes of release dwindled to vanishing-point, for nothing ever happened to prove to us the reality of the British advance. Sometimes—very rarely—we did get hold of a bit of news, and then we discussed it from every point of view, and lived on it for days; lived on it, in fact, until there was nothing of it left, and any hopes it had raised faded like a mirage in the desert. As time went on it became the settled conviction of the majority that the Colony would never be conquered by the British, and that we should not be released until the war had come to an end in Europe.

Although Madaba was supposed to be more or less of a permanent camp for us, the porters were ordered to remain in case it should become necessary to move us again in a hurry. There had been considerable trouble in collecting them at Mahenge, and on safari they had all been roped together in batches of ten and twelve, and even when we had arrived at our destination they were still kept tied together; but all the same, one night a hundred [212] and fifty of them bolted and escaped into the jungle. And it is not to be wondered at, for they were treated like slaves. They received no pay, not even the worthless paper money, but each man had a card on which a mark was made for each day’s work. Their daily posho , or ration, consisted of a cupful of rice measured in one of the small aluminium cups which fitted on to the German water-bottles, and later on even this meagre allowance was reduced by half. But the being roped together was to them the crowning indignity; and later on, when I made my next safari , they were chained together by means of iron rings round their necks. If this does not constitute “slave-driving,” by what name can it be called? This is no prejudiced hearsay evidence; it is what my own eyes have seen.

On Friday, the 29th, the Freiherr informed us that anyone who would sign an oath not to again take up arms in the present war against Germany and her allies would be set free; and the following oath was presented to us for signature—

Naturally there was much speculation in the camp as to what this new development might portend, and we came to the conclusion that the Germans, knowing that it would be impossible to keep us much longer, wanted to jockey us into taking this oath before setting us free. We all decided we would have nothing to do with it, hoping that they would, in a week or two, be obliged to let us go unfettered by any promise. However, as there were among our number several men the nature of whose wounds would in any case prevent them from bearing arms in the future, I advised these to sign the oath and so set an end to their wretched captivity. But before tendering this advice I tried to get the Germans to release [214] them unconditionally, pointing out that they were incapacitated from further service in any case, one being minus an arm and others crippled in various ways. But my request was refused, and so next day ten of our comrades signed the oath and departed for freedom. This was on Saturday, the last day of September.

We wished them Godspeed and saw them off with only a twinge of envy, quickly suppressed, for we felt confident our turn would come very soon, and that without galling restrictions on our future course of action. We had endured so long, surely we could endure yet longer rather than abate one jot or tittle of that which none can wrest from a man save with his own consent—the sovereignty of his own soul.

On October 1st I heard privately from a German that another British officer was at Madaba. He had seemingly been captured near Kissaki, and was confined in a separate hut at some distance from the camp. I applied for permission to see him but was refused, and for a time the Germans even denied his existence. It was evident that they wanted to prevent him from imparting any information to us, but that very fact gave us renewed hope, and made us feel sure that our forces could not be very far away. Very shortly afterwards he was removed and taken south; I imagine to Liwali, where the other officers were confined. Of them I had heard nothing since we parted at Tabora.

In the afternoon of the 4th of October when we were [215] all lying down, and most of us asleep, a spark from one of the cooking fires—built too close to the inflammable grass huts—set the roof in a blaze. We rushed to save our few belongings from the flames, which spread with incredible rapidity. Fortunately the fire had started at the opposite end of the camp, but even so there was not time to get everything out by the one entrance, and we had to break an opening through the wall. All the Germans in the place turned out in quick time armed with rifles, and set the Askaris to work pulling down portions of the sheds to stop the spread of the fire. We were too far from water for that to be any use, and they only managed to save one side of the camp, the other three being burnt to the ground. We managed to salve most of our belongings, and the only thing I lost was a box of matches—a most precious possession, for it was one of three I had hoarded carefully from the days of plenty. We never used a match except in the last extremity. In camp our pipes were always lighted by means of a brand from the fire, and when, on safari , we halted for a brief rest the word would be passed, “The Doctor is going to light a match!” and then everyone would gather round me to get a light.

As soon as the fire had been got under, the roll was called, with most satisfactory results for our jailors, for no one had run away. Indeed, the outbreak had been so sudden that it had not occurred to anyone to make use of the opportunity to escape. In any case there would not have been [216] time to make even the roughest preparations for such an attempt, and most of us were in various stages of undress. I remember I had on neither shirt nor tunic—only shorts and slippers!

That night the prisoners slept round a large fire with a ring of Askaris surrounding them. Dr. Manteufel very kindly offered me a place in his hospital, and I dined with him that night. The fare was little better than what we had in camp, but the bread was a decided improvement, as a small amount of wheat flour had been used in its composition. After the meal we had a liqueur-glass of the local Kummel and a pipeful of native tobacco.

The Germans at once started to construct a new camp, setting it on the bank of the dried-up river. A well was sunk within the boundary-fence to enable prisoners to draw water as required, and the sheds were made much higher than the old ones, so it was possible to go in and out without stooping. A corner of one of them was partitioned off for my use.

By the beginning of October (1916) the food-supply was in a very bad way. We were living almost entirely on sour mealy-meal and chirocco, with only occasionally a very little meat. The sourness of the maize meal was due to the way in which it was prepared, namely, pounded by native women in small wooden tubs and the grain thoroughly wetted before pounding. This was no drawback if the meal was used at once, but when kept for weeks and months, naturally it was bound to ferment. About this time, too, our final ration of sugar and coffee was issued; at least, we were told it was the last in Madaba. With care we reckoned it might last for two or three weeks, and we believed that by that time we should be free. I am convinced that the Germans were of the same opinion.

For two or three days in succession we were greatly cheered by the sound of what we believed to be gunfire. There was a sturdy old Pan-German in the place with whom I used to talk, and he agreed that it was most probably cannon that we heard, and admitted that they were bound sooner or later to lose the Colony. But—never for one instant would he allow the possibility of a German [218] defeat in Europe. He told me, and himself firmly believed, that the Germans could invade England when they pleased, and had only as yet refrained because the Kaiser was loth to invade the country of his friend and kinsman, King George, if he could attain his ends by other means. I asked him how he imagined such a project could be executed, but he only replied: “I do not know. No one knows. There are only two or three men in Germany—the heads of the army—who have knowledge of the scheme, but everyone knows it cannot fail. One day you will see it put in operation, and then— Ach! ”

Alas! I fear our “gunfire” was, after all, a myth; anyway, a sound closely resembling it was accounted for very simply. A well was being dug in the river-bed not far from the camp, and every time the bucket used for raising the earth hit the bottom it gave forth a dull boom closely resembling the sound of distant guns.

On Tuesday, October 10th, we took up our quarters in the newly-constructed camp. The accommodation was certainly much better, and, it being the dry season, we were not troubled by mosquitoes; but I prophesied that in wet weather it would be intolerable, for it was on the bank of a stream and in low-lying ground. When I pointed this out to the Kommandant he as good as said it would be all over before the rains set in, adding, as an after-thought, that anyway it could be moved when necessary.

With the dramatic suddenness of the long-expected, [219] my provisional release came on October 11th—the very next day after we had moved into the new camp. It happened in this wise. Some few days previously, at the time when the first batch left, the Freiherr had asked me if I cared to go under the same conditions. I pointed out that, as I was not in any case a combatant officer, it was absurd to ask me not to take part in any future fighting or to forego the legitimate exercise of my profession. He now told me that he had received a communication from the Commander-in-Chief authorising him to set me at liberty provided I would sign a paper undertaking to disclose nothing of military importance that I might have seen or heard. He further promised that medical attendance should be provided for the prisoners left behind. Naturally I was overjoyed at the proffered chance of escape from that nightmare camp and all its attendant horrors, and after consulting with the others I decided to accept the modified conditions offered. At the same time I persuaded four of the men who were very ill that they could, in the circumstances, conscientiously sign the oath required of them; I was convinced that they would only die if they remained. A Portuguese also signed, and next day the six of us departed.

We proceeded first to Mahenge, reaching there on the 17th. Here we found four of the prisoners who had attempted to run away on the day before we left that fortress, and heard how the fifth had died in the Bush from blackwater-fever. They were being well treated, and in the matter of food [220] were much better off than the wretched companions we had left behind at Madaba. Our old camp had been turned into a native hospital for Askaris, so the men were lodged in one of the rooms of the Boma. The Kommandant—Major von Grawert of most unblessed memory—had gone south with a contingent to meet the Nyassaland forces, and I was lodged in his house. I wished he could have known this, for it seemed such a just retribution for his discourteous refusal to grant me any fitting living accommodation when I was under his charge.

We rested for one day at Mahenge, and I took a walk round the village and out to the mission station, where I found the man whom we had left behind ill with blackwater-fever. He was convalescent, and looking forward to release in the near future, but was not yet strong enough to accompany us. I messed with the German officers, and had some interesting talks with them about the war. They expressed the opinion that the Allies would be the first to become exhausted and have to give in, and were convinced that hostilities would not outlast the winter of 1917. The war would, they argued naïvely, be so very bad for trade, and of course it was well known that Britain would sacrifice anything and everything to “business” interests!... And here again crops up the fundamental error in psychology which, unless I am very much mistaken, will prove the downfall of Germany.

Two of these officers were wearing the Iron Cross—a fact they were most anxious I should [221] notice and comment upon. It appeared that the authority to wear these had been received by wireless that very day. This did not surprise me, for I knew that they had a station which, while not powerful enough to transmit messages to Berlin, was yet capable of receiving them. I enquired how the news of the particular actions for which these decorations had been conferred got through to Germany, and was informed with a sly wink that the letters were sent via Portuguese East Africa. They admitted that this was a long and difficult process, but affirmed that they usually got through in time.

Before leaving Mahenge the surplus pay accumulated from the three rupees a day I was allowed to draw was handed to me, partly in silver, but mainly in paper notes. These latter I was most unwilling to accept, and pointed out that I should probably find great difficulty in cashing them, but they assured me that the D.O.A. bank at Dar-es-Salaam would cash them at par. Needless to say, when I arrived there I found the said bank had been taken over by the British, and no one would look at my poor little notes. However, I kept them, and later handed them in at the Admiralty, as the sum they represented had been deducted from my pay. Of course the Admiralty allowed me full compensation for them, and I hope they will be duly presented to Germany for settlement when the final day of reckoning arrives. These notes were manufactured in the Colony when it was found that silver rupees were getting scarce. The Indian tradesmen—wily [222] fellows—buried all the rupees that came into their hands rather than bank them, and to this practice the shortage of specie was largely due.

We left Mahenge on Thursday, October 19th. Feldwebel Hertzhog (who proved to be the owner of the large rubber-plantation at Sanya) went in charge of us, and as he spoke no English I had to act as his interpreter. This time we crossed the Ulanga by means of a ferry. A long steel wire, to which a European-built boat was attached by means of a running block, had been stretched across the narrowest part of the river, and the force of the current took the boat across much quicker than natives could paddle. It travelled either way with equal ease simply by altering the position of the tiller.

There was, of course, a German in charge of the ferry, and there seemed to be a lot of traffic proceeding in both directions. We stayed the night at Ifakara, where I made the acquaintance of two German medical men whom I had not met before. They proved very hospitable, and invited me to dine with them. I found that they had established a hospital in the mission buildings and had a considerable number of patients in their charge.

Four days later, on Wednesday, October 25th, we reached Solwa. The mill had been burnt out and only the bare walls were left standing. I was told the damage had been done by a bomb dropped from one of our aircraft, but I believe that in reality the Germans had themselves set fire to the place to prevent its falling intact into enemy hands.

This was as far as the Feldwebel had orders to conduct us, and we had to await the arrival of another escort. He turned up in the afternoon, but would not consent to our taking the road again until after nightfall. We started soon after 6 p.m. There was no moon and it was very dark; we could not see a yard ahead. An hour’s walk brought us to the river Ruhaha, the approaches to which were cumbered by the trees which had been felled in all directions. Lighted only by the dull glow of a paraffin lamp, it was difficult and dangerous walking. We were ferried across the river in canoes. I had heard that the Germans had built a bridge here, but though I peered into the darkness, I could see no sign of it. On reaching the further side we had still about an hour and a half’s tramp before we reached Kidote, where we were to sleep.

I had my evening meal with our escort, Leutenant zur See Franckenburg. When war broke out he had been an officer in a merchantship, and when she put in at one of the Portuguese East African ports, he had travelled up on foot to offer his services to Von Lettow. He spoke good English.

Kidote seemed deserted, and although I knew there must be a large German camp in the vicinity, I saw no sign of it.

On the next morning, Thursday, October 26th, yet another officer arrived to conduct us on the last lap of our journey. All his insignia of rank were covered up, but I made out one star on his shoulder beneath the khaki covering and thus knew he was a [224] Lieutenant; later I discovered his name was Poehl. With him were an Unter-Offizier, a German private, and two black Askaris, who each carried a small white flag on the end of a long bamboo. About half a dozen native porters also accompanied us and carried our gear.

We started about seven in the morning. Poehl told me he did not know exactly where we should find the British forces, but hoped we should not have far to go. It appeared that only a week before they had pushed right up to Kidote, and had then, for some cause unknown to the Germans, retired. Various reasons were adduced to account for this manœuvre; the one most generally accepted was that plague had broken out; another that the Boers in South Africa had revolted; and yet another that the troops in German East Africa had refused to fight any more. Needless to say, all were wrong.

Just outside Kidote we came on the evacuated British post, and from here all the way to Mfrisi, where we fell in with the British outposts, the road was lined with the rotting carcases of horses and cattle which had died from trypanosomiasis, the disease conveyed by the tse-tse fly which abounds in this district; there was carrion in various stages of putrefaction every few hundred yards, and the stench was appalling. The flies, too, were particularly vicious all along the road, and we were all bitten more or less. Luckily this trypanosoma is not capable of giving rise to disease in humans, though a somewhat similar germ, also conveyed [225] by a variety of tse-tse, is the cause of sleeping sickness.

After we had been travelling for some time we met a German scout returning from reconnoitring the British position, and from him learnt that there was still a British post at Mfrisi.

Although the district through which we were passing was the same through which we had travelled when going from Morogoro to Mahenge, I did not recognise the road in the least, for it was one made by the British pioneers and had not followed the same line as the old native track. Presently we were halted, and told to discard and leave behind all German Government property and keep only our own personal belongings; consequently we had to leave our beds and bedding, though I kept one German blanket which was packed in my bag. I had made sure our private bundles would be searched, and so had very reluctantly burnt a small diary I had been keeping, for it contained several references—not of a complimentary character—to Germans, and I thought if it was found I might be escorted back to captivity! However, I had taken the precaution to copy all important dates on to a small piece of paper which I successfully concealed, and it is chiefly from this that the notes for the present narrative were compiled. As it turned out, I might, after all, have kept my diary, because, for a wonder, our private possessions were not interfered with.

When we resumed our march Leutenant Poehl and I walked together. He spoke English [226] perfectly and had travelled in Scotland quite a lot. He asked me why the English were so bitter against the Germans. I replied that, so far as I knew, there was no undue bitterness, my countrymen being rather an easy-going race and by no means given to harsh or hasty judgments. But he insisted that such bitterness must exist, else why did our papers publish such untrue accounts of German doings in Belgium? I told him that, as I had not seen an English paper since my capture, I had no knowledge of the reports to which he referred. Then he assured me that his countrymen would never act otherwise than courteously to women and children, and that the shooting of civilians in Belgium was a necessary measure of reprisal because they had shot German soldiers from the windows of houses; and, furthermore, that such reprisals had only actually occurred in one instance! “And,” he went on, “the brutalities of the Russians whom you are fighting to support are infinitely worse than anything my people have done in Belgium.” Having no certain information of the facts at that time, I could neither argue with him nor refute his statements.

It was while we were thus walking and talking together that one of the Askaris, who was carrying a white flag just ahead of us, suddenly gave a yell and jumped to the side of the road. Looking up, we saw about a hundred yards away a stalwart South African covering us with his rifle, and in a twinkling we flung our arms above our heads and shouted to him not to fire. A moment later he was [227] joined by others, and, still keeping us covered, they motioned to us to approach one at a time. When they heard that some of us were British prisoners, one of their number was despatched with a message to the camp, and in a few minutes an officer appeared and we were formally handed over.

These words sound bald—almost commonplace—and yet it was thus—quite simply—that passed what in retrospect must surely appear one of the most dramatic moments of our lives....

It was just one o’clock when we were handed over, and, after a wash, I went in to lunch with the officers of the regiment. My first meal as a free man! Let the reader imagine to himself how I enjoyed it! There was only one thing to which I took exception, and that was that rice was served up with the meat as a vegetable, and I had eaten, in the past two years, more rice than I now care even to think about.

The doctor was the only officer allowed, under active service conditions, to carry alcohol, so he produced a bottle of whisky and we all had a small tot to celebrate the great occasion. Then I was called upon for an exhaustive account of my experiences, and I had the satisfaction of giving the names of several Germans whose conduct towards us had not been in accordance with international convention, and seeing these duly noted for future reference.

That night I slept on a bed made up of loans from the camping-kit of various officers; one provided a pillow, another a blanket, and so on. The next morning, after a sumptuous breakfast in which bacon—a luxury so long unknown—played a prominent part, we said good-bye to our new [229] friends and set out along the road to Kilossa, accompanied only by an Indian cart which carried our rations and our few personal belongings.

How we revelled in the full realisation of freedom ! Joyed in the liberty to go as we pleased, subject to no alien orders!

At midday we camped by a small stream, made a fire, and ate our lunch of good bully-beef, white bread, butter and jam, and tea instead of that everlasting coffee. We could not hope to reach Kilossa that night, but our objective was a small telephone post about half-way between that place and the camp we had just left.

We arrived at this post about five o’clock; it was only a reed hut in the wilderness with two operators in charge, but we were thankful to reach it and be able to sit down and rest and drink mugs of steaming hot tea. As there was only room in the hut for the two telephone-operators, we spread our blankets round the fire outside.

Although on our arrival it was still far from dark, the natives absolutely refused to go down to draw water from the water-hole, a distance of about a hundred and fifty yards, unless one of us accompanied them with a rifle. They declared that a lion came to drink there every evening; and, sure enough, later on we heard the brute prowling around. After our long walk no one felt energetic enough to go down and shoot or try to shoot him, and as I had no experience of big-game hunting, I thought discretion the better part of valour. But his majesty the lion, attracted no doubt by the smell [230] of the two oxen which formed our cart-team, haunted the neighbourhood all night. Once I awoke just after midnight and heard his roar most unpleasantly close. The fire had died down, so I got up, kicked it into a blaze, and piled on some more logs before resuming my slumbers.

The next morning I telephoned to the camp at Ulaiya to enquire if they could send a motor for us, and after breakfast two cars turned up to convey us and our gear, so we got there just in time for lunch. Most of the road was familiar to me, although the track had been levelled and widened. But Ulaiya itself was quite unrecognisable, for from a small native village it had been converted into a huge camp many acres in extent. After an excellent lunch, in the course of which I had to again narrate all my adventures, we were sent on to Kilossa by car. Here, for five days, I enjoyed the hospitality of the medical staff, among whom I found an old fellow-student from my hospital—a captain R.A.M.C. We had not met for several years, so naturally had lots to yarn about.

One day I walked out and lunched at the headquarters of the R.A.N.S., and they gave me some real navy tobacco—a great treat. Observation from aircraft is far from easy in East Africa. As often as not a landing-place must be specially prepared before any operations can be undertaken at all, and further, effective work is greatly hampered by the ease with which an enemy column can take cover in the thick bush the moment a plane is spotted against the clear blue sky.

On November 2nd I found I should have an opportunity of getting down to Dar-es-Salaam by tractor. When the Germans retreated south they had blown up all the bridges on the Central Railway and destroyed the rolling stock, but our engineers quickly executed temporary repairs to line and bridges and made loop-lines round the bigger breaks. As the line thus repaired was not strong enough to bear the weight of an ordinary train and engine, light tractors were run. These were most ingeniously improvised from motor-cars fitted with flanged trolley-wheels, and developed a good rate of speed. Of course, they did not run to a time-table, and anyone wanting to travel had just to sit and wait and watch for a car, and as their business was primarily to convey stores, it often happened that there was no room for passengers. After waiting until nearly midnight, I was lucky enough to get a down-bound tractor, into which I bundled myself and bag, and spreading a blanket on some sacks, went to sleep. I knew we should not arrive in Morogoro until early morning, and as a matter of fact, as we stopped somewhere en route , we did not get there until 7 a.m.

That particular tractor was going no further, so, after breakfasting on the rations I had brought with me, I looked around for other means of transport. Eventually I found that another small motor-tractor was going down the line and could take me. No one knew exactly when it would start, so, as I did not dare wander far from the station for fear of missing it, I was, to my regret, unable to explore [232] Morogoro and see what alterations had been effected since I last saw the place.

I resumed my journey at 11 a.m. in a little Ford car fitted with flanged wheels. It was used by the engineers for getting about from one point of the line to the other, and was supplied with comfortable seats. I greatly enjoyed my novel ride, which differed from the ordinary train journey in that I could see straight ahead down the line instead of only on either side, and thus got the full benefit of the scenery.

I noticed that at intervals along the line, in order to hinder the advance of our troops as much as possible, the Germans had burnt the big piles of wood-fuel collected for their engines, and just before reaching Ngerigeri station, we came to a wide gulley into which, after blowing up the bridge, they had run all the rolling stock of the district. Thus this ravine, which we crossed on a temporary bridge, was choked with a most amazing jumble of iron girders, smashed carriages, and wrecked engines.

From Ngerigeri onwards the line was practically intact, so much so that ordinary trains were running—but I stuck to the little car.

It was nine o’clock before we reached Dar-es-Salaam, so rather than seek a roof to sleep under at that time of night, I elected to camp under the palms. I had all I wanted in the way of rations, so lighted a small fire, cooked my supper, and rolling up in my blankets was soon fast asleep.

The next morning I reported at Army Headquarters, where they were considerably surprised [233] to see me, and after I had recounted the tale of my adventures I was turned over to the care of the naval authorities, and accommodated on one of our Monitors which was in the harbour.

How strange it seemed, after my long wayfaring, to be once more in a ship, sleeping in a clean bunk, eating decent meals decently served, amid all the old familiar seafaring sights and sounds!

I spent several days in Dar-es-Salaam, and was much annoyed to observe our very lenient treatment of German prisoners. Coming as I did straight from the rigorous regime of a Teutonic internment camp, the contrast was painfully obvious. Neither women nor missionaries were interned; they were allowed, in my opinion, a dangerous amount of liberty. True, they had to report at intervals to the A.P.M., and to be in their houses after sunset, but seemingly no restrictions were placed on their communications with the natives, many of whom, having worked so long for the Germans, would be quite willing to carry messages or letters. Moreover, many of the laymen were allowed the same privileges if they pleaded that by age or physique they were incapacitated from bearing arms, or that internment would be prejudicial to their health. Now our enemies allowed no such latitude to their prisoners. All British subjects, including missionaries, had been interned, and that under conditions calculated to ruin the health of all but the very toughest. Moreover, several of our missionaries had been tried on charges of espionage—charges quite [234] unfounded, but which, if proved, would have inevitably meant execution. It is indeed remarkable that none of them did, in fact, suffer the death-penalty, for by the German penal code—the exact opposite to ours—a prisoner is held to be guilty unless he can most conclusively prove his innocence.

From Dar-es-Salaam I eventually proceeded to Zanzibar, and there I had my photograph taken. Then I bought myself some razors and some new clothing, and having shaved off the beard I had worn for so long, and discarded my German-made khaki, I once more (I hope) looked an Englishman! Hitherto my close-cropped head, full beard and German tunic and helmet had given rise to some natural misconceptions, though fortunately these had not subjected me to any annoyance. On one occasion at Dar-es-Salaam, when passing a couple of our soldiers, I heard one of them say to the other: “Look at him! He’s a German officer—he ought to be locked up!”

From Zanzibar a passage was arranged for me in a transport, the Professor , formerly the Professor Woermann , a ship we had captured from the enemy. I landed at Durban on November 27th, and my five days in this port, which might have been so lonely and tedious, were rendered most enjoyable by the kind hospitality extended to me by one of the principal residents.

Mr. —— (I have not permission to mention his name), having heard of me from one of the officers who had travelled in the Professor , sought me out [235] and asked if he could assist me in any way. He took me in his car to the S.N.O.’s office, where I had to report, and then on to his club to lunch. When he heard that, knowing no one in the town, I proposed to put up at an hotel, he invited me to stay at his own house—a privilege I very gratefully accepted.

Thanks to the kindness of these Good Samaritans, the days I spent in Durban must ever remain a most happy memory.

Eventually I sailed, homeward bound, in a Union Castle liner. I had a two-berth cabin, which I was lucky enough to keep to myself for the whole of the voyage. We lay at Cape Town for twenty-four hours, which just gave me time to go to Simonstown, where I had heard that, after my capture, my effects had been stored. I was greatly relieved to find that they were really there, for, at the moment, all I possessed were some whites, a few indispensable necessaries I had bought at Zanzibar, and the relics of my prison clothes.

We sailed from Cape Town on a Sunday morning, but before we were out of sight of land the vessel suddenly slowed down, turned round, and commenced to steam back towards the port. Great excitement! What was up? Many were the varied speculations indulged in before a steward solved the mystery for us. Stowaways! Two girls had been discovered hidden in one of the boats, where they hoped to have evaded observation until the ship was too far on her voyage to turn back. But luck was against them, and when they had [236] been handed down into a tender, which came out in response to our signal, we once more steamed away.

On board we were quite a cheery crowd, including a goodly contingent of men from the Colony and Zanzibar going home to do their “bit”; but what surprised me was the number of women and children, especially among the second-class passengers. The weather was delightful, and I found plenty to occupy my time. Deck-games in the forenoon, and in the hot lazy hours after midday a novel and a long deck-chair in which to read or doze as the mood prompted. After dinner we played bridge in the smoking-room, and then came a final stroll round the deck in the starlight before turning in. Almost I could forget that we were at war, and even the horrors of my captivity began to fade and grow dim as the quiet days sped past.

Christmas was spent at sea: a great disappointment this, as I had hoped to be home by then, and I knew how anxiously my arrival was awaited by my people. Nevertheless I was feeling much easier in my mind, and had a curious presentiment that all was well with them. True, I had no very recent news; the letters awaiting me at Zanzibar were all of an ancient date, written prior to my release. Still—I was going home , and in that thought lay comfort sufficient for the moment.

We were favoured with glorious weather, and it was not until we were only a few days out from England that the familiar grey skies, fog and drenching mist made us forsake the decks for the warmth of the saloons and cabins. For the first [237] time for two years I got into my old blues again, and then made the annoying discovery that my greatcoat was missing. Evidently my servant had neglected to send it ashore at Simonstown with the rest of my kit. Owing to this omission, when, on a characteristically cold and wet day at the very end of December, 1916, I set foot on English soil again, I was wrapped in a rug like some old Highland shepherd!

With a pal I made a bee-line for the post-office, and then to the nearest hotel to celebrate the occasion.

“What will you have?” I asked him as we reached the bar; but before he could reply the barmaid chimed in: “No treating allowed!” And I found myself brought up with a round turn against one of the unfamiliar war-time regulations! I apologised, explained my ignorance, and we each solemnly paid for our own drinks. But my experience of the new D.O.R.A.-ridden England was not to end there. When we repaired to the coffee-room for lunch we were met by a decrepit old waiter—the last survivor; his companions had all been replaced by girls. He apologised for the scantiness of the menu , and pointed out that even [238] so we were only allowed to partake of a limited number of such dishes as were available. It was all beyond me. I felt I could not hope to cope all at once with so many new regulations, so I told him just to serve us with what was allowed.

While we were discussing the first course the old chap prompted gently: “If you want anything to drink, gentlemen, you’d better order now. The bar closes in a few minutes.”

After lunch we went to the station, where the examination of luggage was in progress. Of course one of my boxes had gone astray—it was only an old Kerosine-box, but it had been my safari trunk all through my African wanderings, and I would not have lost it for anything. I spent a good half-hour searching, and gave a whoop of joy when I finally discovered the battered, disreputable object.

At last we were off on our long run to London, and reached Paddington at the unholy hour of 1.30 a.m.

I collared a sleepy porter and told him to bring my traps up to the Station Hotel.

Not get a room at the Paddington Station Hotel! How unnatural! I did a sprint along the platform and up the incline to the entrance. True enough.

“You might try one of the hotels outside,” he answered, “and I should advise you to hurry.”

“All right, I’ll take it,” I cried. “Book it—I’ll be back in a minute.” And I hurried back for my luggage.

At the station I found a naval friend sitting disconsolately on his trunk, with the grim foreboding that he would have to spend the remainder of the night there. I offered half my bed, which he gratefully accepted, and so we turned in and fell asleep pondering on these uncomfortable innovations. But when next morning, instead of the grimy “boots” of pre-war days, a trim little chambermaid appeared with our early cup of tea, we decided that from the æsthetic point of view, at any rate, there were compensations!

After breakfast I repaired to the Admiralty, reported my arrival in England, and was granted a month’s leave.

A taxi back to the hotel, then on to the station—and an hour later I was again in the train bound for— home .

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO YEARS' CAPTIVITY IN GERMAN EAST AFRICA ***

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CHAPTER		PAGE
I.	The Loom of War	1
II.	In Tropic Seas	16
III.	Treachery	22
IV.	Taken Prisoner	38
V.	En Route for Kilimatinde	52
VI.	My First Prison	62
VII.	Shattered Hopes	75
VIII.	Our First Christmas in Captivity	86
IX.	The Major’s Venture	90
X.	New Arrivals	100
XI.	More Attempts at Escape	110
XII.	Typhoid at the Boma	120
XIII.	German Cruelty to Natives	132
XIV.	Transferred to Tabora	142
XV.	On Safari	158
XVI.	Mahenge	168
XVII.	Hope Renewed	184
XVIII.	A Nightmare Camp	203
XIX.	Released	217
XX.	Home at Last	228

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Two years' captivity in German East Africa

TWO YEARS’ CAPTIVITY
IN GERMAN EAST AFRICA

PREFACE

CONTENTS

Two Years’ Captivity
in German East Africa

CHAPTER I
THE LOOM OF WAR

CHAPTER II
IN TROPIC SEAS

CHAPTER III
TREACHERY

CHAPTER IV
TAKEN PRISONER

CHAPTER V
EN ROUTE FOR KILIMATINDE

CHAPTER VI
MY FIRST PRISON

CHAPTER VII
SHATTERED HOPES

CHAPTER VIII
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS IN CAPTIVITY

CHAPTER IX
THE MAJOR’S VENTURE

CHAPTER X
NEW ARRIVALS

CHAPTER XI
MORE ATTEMPTS AT ESCAPE

CHAPTER XII
TYPHOID AT THE BOMA

CHAPTER XIII
GERMAN CRUELTY TO NATIVES

CHAPTER XIV
TRANSFERRED TO TABORA

CHAPTER XV
ON SAFARI

CHAPTER XVI
MAHENGE

CHAPTER XVII
HOPE RENEWED

CHAPTER XVIII
A NIGHTMARE CAMP

CHAPTER XIX
RELEASED!

CHAPTER XX
HOME AT LAST!

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Two years' captivity in German East Africa

TWO YEARS’ CAPTIVITY IN GERMAN EAST AFRICA

PREFACE

CONTENTS

Two Years’ Captivity in German East Africa

CHAPTER I THE LOOM OF WAR

CHAPTER II IN TROPIC SEAS

CHAPTER III TREACHERY

CHAPTER IV TAKEN PRISONER

CHAPTER V EN ROUTE FOR KILIMATINDE

CHAPTER VI MY FIRST PRISON

CHAPTER VII SHATTERED HOPES

CHAPTER VIII OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS IN CAPTIVITY

CHAPTER IX THE MAJOR’S VENTURE

CHAPTER X NEW ARRIVALS

CHAPTER XI MORE ATTEMPTS AT ESCAPE

CHAPTER XII TYPHOID AT THE BOMA

CHAPTER XIII GERMAN CRUELTY TO NATIVES

CHAPTER XIV TRANSFERRED TO TABORA

CHAPTER XV ON SAFARI

CHAPTER XVI MAHENGE

CHAPTER XVII HOPE RENEWED

CHAPTER XVIII A NIGHTMARE CAMP

CHAPTER XIX RELEASED!

CHAPTER XX HOME AT LAST!