CHAPTER XIV

TRANSFERRED TO TABORA

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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.