Tarzan Trilogy by Thomas Zachek, page 30
part #3 of The Wild Adventures of Edgar Rice Burroughs Series
Tarzan looked around the rest of the place, steeling himself for whatever else he might find. The door of the rear storage shed, the place where his British clothing and personal items were stored, had been blasted with a grenade or two. Debris and fragments of storage containers and shrapnel from the metal walls lay scattered for yards. He did not even look to ascertain the condition of his personal effects. At that moment he was not sure whether he would ever need them to journey back to England.
The Lord of the Jungle suddenly felt alone. Even though most of his formative years in the jungle had been solitary, he had had a welcome friend in Reynolds, perhaps his best one, with the possible exception of M’Bala.
He did not know what to do. The families of the men would have to be notified. How? Wellington, he supposed. But at the moment he had no idea how to go about that.
His senses were deadened, his resolve drained. Mechanically, methodically, he picked up the body of each dead man in turn and carried or dragged it to the one utility hut that remained standing. After stacking the corpses inside, he repaired and reinforced the rickety door and secured the latch. At least they would not be devoured by hyenas in the night.
Weary from his gruesome task, weak with hunger, the ape man sat down on the weathered gray planks of the Point Station pier and stared absently at the gently flowing current of the Bolongo River. No river traffic at all today. It was eerie. He wondered whether the Nazis had begun to control the river traffic from Nyumba. Or perhaps people just feared to be out on the river these days.
Several small, colorful birds landed one by one on the well trodden earth of the Point Station main yard, each cocking its little head and pecking away for a moment at whatever attracted its curiosity and then fluttering off again.
Tiny red and brown monkeys chittered from the trees and cavorted about, springing from limb to limb. One ventured down and into the yard to investigate, its large brown eyes darting around and its tiny nostrils flaring. It apparently smelled something it did not like and scampered away.
Tarzan watched them for some moments. This is how people should live, he thought. Free.
He yearned to be free and unencumbered. He was seized by a sudden urge to head toward the deep jungle, away from all of this, far from the company of any men. He could do it. He could live the rest of his life like that. To hell with the Nazis. To hell with London and European politics.
But what of his friends? Could he just abandon them? They would never know, he considered. They would believe he had died at the hands of the Nazis. Perhaps they already believed him dead.
He hesitated. If he took off now, he realized, he would be abandoning the noble efforts the native tribesmen had already made in their quest for freedom. He would be betraying the grand words he had spoken to Reynolds about resistance and determination.
He resolved to at least find out how his friends the Waziri fared. Had their village been found? Was it, too, in ruins? What else had happened while he was gone? He needed to know whether the resistance movement he had helped give birth to was still alive or whether it, too, had been cut down.
The ape man shed the cumbersome cloth smock from the camp and retrieved a hunting knife and sheath from one of the corpses, who had no further use for it. He slung the captured Nazi rifle over his head and shoulder and took to the trees. He could have taken one of Point Station’s utility canoes and paddled upriver toward the tributary of the Bolongo which eventually led to the Waziri village, but he reasoned that he might be spotted on the river, and no one could keep up with him in the trees.
This day-long journey took him deep into territory farther away from Nyumba and, as far as he knew, farther away from the established Nazi camps. He believed, therefore, that perhaps there was a chance that the Nazis had not advanced this far yet.
A chance. Perhaps.
Chapter 14
R I V E R L E S S O N S
The Waziri village was still there, and the villagers rushed out to greet him, exuberant at his return.
Most welcoming of all was the great piano-key grin with which M’Bala greeted the sight of his lost ally. Tarzan suspected that M’Bala had not grinned so broadly in some time.
Tarzan was promptly bidden to sit while the great fire was stoked with logs. The ape man would have preferred to rest, but there was much to talk about and the villagers were eager to hear what had happened to him and share their news with him as well.
Tarzan gratefully accepted food and drink as M’Bala began, “Many things have happened while you were gone, Tarzan. More people have been taken to the camps, but the soldiers have been met with more resistance, too. As you see, they have not found our village yet, but we fear it is only a matter of time. They have focused their movements to the northwest and the southwest of Nyumba. We only recently learned that they have begun a second camp to the southwest. In the meantime, we have constructed a rendezvous area deep in the jungle, far from where they patrol. Six tribes have joined our effort.”
M’Bala bit into a huge joint of roasted meat and, chewing, continued, “They have made fewer raids lately. We believe that they are concentrating their resources on camp construction and operation for the moment, and will need more reinforcements before they can launch many additional raids.”
“Perhaps that means that now is the time to move,” said Asani, one of the younger warriors. “The tribes are eager. The drums could call a council in a day.”
M’Bala looked at him, and back at Tarzan. “We have been debating that. Many voices said that we should wait until you returned before making a major attack. No one wished to believe that you were dead, certainly not without proof.”
“Now that you have returned, you can lead us!” a tribesman said.
M’Bala ventured further motivation to the ape man. “You wish to take revenge for the death of your friend, do you not?”
“It has crossed my mind,”Tarzan allowed.
Many of the tribesmen in attendance voiced their determination:
“Let us move.”
“This oppression has gone on long enough.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Tarzan found inspiration in their zeal. After a moment, he said, “Then we must move, and we must move quickly.”
“What shall we do?” asked one tribesman. “Resume raids?”
“We need to move to the next level,” Tarzan said. He explained the call he made earlier to George Fredrickson, saying that Fredrickson expected to contact him again with details. “Since then, I have been out of touch, of course. I should attempt to reach him, but I can no longer use the Point Station telephone. I need to find another phone or a different way to contact London, and quickly.”
“Where else is there such a phone?” asked M’Bala.
“Only in Nyumba. I daresay we cannot get into the hotel. Perhaps I can use the one in the consul’s office. I need to tell him about Point Station anyway.”
“But if you go there, you will be recognized.”
“That’s the problem.”
The ape man thought for a moment and then said, “Do you still have all those uniforms and clothing we took in the first raid?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, one of those officers’ uniforms might fit me. My German is a little rusty, but passable. Posing as a Nazi officer, I might be able to mingle with the crowds in the streets of Nyumba, find out the current status of things there, and make my way unobtrusively to the consul’s office. There I could use his phone to contact London.”
“That sounds risky. We tried wearing uniforms once before. It was a trap, remember? It did not succeed.”
“That failed, I believe, because they recognized the truck, not me. But, yes, it is risky. Everything we do is risky. But we must hit them when and where they don’t expect it, and with more than they expect.”
“Do you want several of us to go with you?”
“Thank you, but dressed as what? Black Nazi soldiers? The idea is to not draw attention to my presence.”
“You should not go alone. How about a manservant?”
Tarzan said, “Even better—how about a young man as a servant? Less conspicuous.”
“Very well. But who?”
“I was thinking of Dajan.”
M’Bala looked down the row of seated warriors to see the youth who had heard his name and whose large eyes brightened eagerly, in gratification that the ape man should think highly of him. The chief of the Waziri smiled. “A good choice.”
The journey down the river in a Waziri canoe took the better part of two days. Tarzan sat in the front and Dajan in the rear, their provisions and belongings bundled in the center under pelts to provide some protection against possible splashing. They set out west from the narrow straights of the tributary bordering the Waziri land and progressed onto the broad, wide Bolongo.
With the exception of one large falls and one set of rapids they encountered, the river was tranquil for most of the way, their progress aided by the smooth glide of the downriver current. Their journey was peaceful, ironic in light of the purpose of their mission.
Lush, verdant green bordered most of the river, the trees often towering so high as to shade the river like a canopy. The water swirled and eddied around the rocks that lined many sections of the river, occasionally interrupted by stretches of marsh grass or muddy shores where animals came to drink. They saw few crocodiles or other beasts on this outing. Once they believed a great cat came to the river, but their approach appeared to scare it away.
“I’ve been thinking,” the ape man said at length, breaking the silence. “It might add to the illusion if you knew a little German. It would be reasonable to assume that your master would have taught you some.”
“What should I know?” said the black-skinned youth, eager to learn from this great warrior who had long been a mentor to his tribe.
“Well, Ja is ‘yes,’ and nein is ‘no.’”
“Ja. Nein,” Dajan repeated. “I think I can get that.”
“How about the German for ‘I don’t understand.’ Ich verstehe nicht.”
Dajan stammered, “Ick vurste nik….”
“Ich,” Tarzan said. “Let the air out. Ichhh,” he stressed, exaggerating the sound. Dajan repeated the phrase with more precision.
Tarzan continued, “How about ‘I don’t know?’ Ich weiss nicht.”
Dajan struggled with that phrase for a few passes, until he became comfortable with it.
“And how do I address you?” he asked.
“Always Meinherr. It means ‘sir.’”
Dajan proved to be an apt and eager pupil. He asked for more. They continued the lesson for another mile of river, until Tarzan was compelled to say, “Slow down. It will not be credible if you speak the language too well!”
*
At the end of the first day, they stopped at a suitable spot and concealed the canoe along the shoreline. After taking a brief supper from the provisions they had brought along, they ensconced themselves high in the crooks of sturdy trees and settled in to sleep.
Early the next morning as they prepared to leave, Tarzan said, “Time to put on our costumes.” He unpacked the clothing they had brought and donned his Nazi military uniform, complete with belts, boots and visored cap. Dajan struggled a little with the unfamiliar shirt and pants which they hoped would suffice to suggest the clothing of a manservant. It amused Tarzan to have to show him how the buttons were fastened.
They launched the canoe and set out on the river for the remainder of the journey, just as morning mist was lifting off the water’s cool surface.
Such a canoe trip down the river allows a traveler long stretches of thought, and the ape man was no exception. As he steadily paddled, with only flitting birds overhead to disturb his thoughts, Tarzan considered the lot of his companion, this tall, vigorous seventeen-year-old who not that long ago had passed into manhood by Waziri ritual. Already he had seen his share of strife. He had been nearly killed last year in a tribal war fomented by greedy, vengeful white men, and this year he had been imprisoned in a concentration camp. It was for him and other young ones like him that the tribes resisted their conquerors. It was for him that the events Tarzan was about to set in motion must be undertaken.
Soon they passed the ruins of Point Station, and Tarzan told Dajan what had happened there. He spoke of his friendship with Captain Reynolds and his grief at the waste and loss he had witnessed.
They were silent for some time after that. Insects hummed and birds cawed and screeched in the distance.
At length, Dajan spoke up, “This clothing feels funny. Do white people wear such things all the time?”
“Yes, all the time, except for sleeping,” answered Tarzan. “Remember, it is often not very warm where they live.”
“I don’t like the shoes. They pinch.”
“They do take some getting used to.”
They journeyed further on, the lapping of the waves against the paddles the only sounds they made.
“Tarzan, do you like being white?” Dajan asked, out of nowhere.
“What sort of question is that? Do you not like being black?”
“Well…” the youth thought for a moment, “when I am with my family and my friends and my tribe, I do not think about it. Only when I am with others who might treat me differently because they are not black, am I reminded of the difference.”
“Exactly,” said the ape man.
“Tarzan, why do white men hate us?”
“They do not all hate you. Captain Reynolds and his men do not hate you. You have met white traders and missionaries who did not hate you.”
“But many do.”
“To them, you are different. And men fear and hate what they don’t understand. I cannot explain it, but it seems to be true.”
“I saw terrible things when I was in that camp. Why do these Nazi men want to enslave us? What drives them?”
“Greed and power. It may be that they want the riches that Africa provides. They intend to grow more food than they need here, and mine gold and diamonds, which they will send back to their country. And they want the cheap labor to provide it.”
“I don’t understand why men do this. Do they not have hearts? Can they not see how much misery and suffering they cause?”
“They think you are inferior, and thus they think that you are easily conquered, and expendable.”
“We will show them otherwise!” Dajan declared, proudly.
“It seems we will have to,” Tarzan answered, his gaze lost in the depths of the murky river water.
Chapter 15
M E S S A G E
Tarzan and Dajan arrived at Nyumba in the early afternoon. Tarzan had hoped to reach the consul’s office before he left for tea time, a ritual still clung to even in this remote region. They tied up their canoe at one of the less conspicuous mooring spots just up the river from the main wharf area and proceeded to walk across the wharf docks and out onto the hot, dusty streets of Nyumba. The Lord of the Jungle walked tall and straight, saluting passing Nazis but avoiding their eye contact, lest they look too closely. Dajan tried to act the part of a serving boy on his first visit to the city, a role which was not particularly challenging for him to play. As it turned out, the sight of a Nazi lieutenant accompanied by an African manservant was not that conspicuous, since Africans had evidently been pressed into service as landscapers, bearers and valets on a large scale.
Tarzan was taken aback at the changes that had been made in Nyumba since he had last been there. The Nazi presence in the town had dramatically increased. Fuhrmann and his men had moved in quickly. Clusters of soldiers walked everywhere. Guards patrolled outside several buildings, as if the Nazis had commandeered them. As they passed the hotel, Tarzan saw that it was crowded with Nazi guards, and uniformed soldiers passed in and out of it regularly. A large red and white banner bearing a black swastika had been hung from the front balcony, announcing where the colonel had established his headquarters. Indeed, Colonel Fuhrmann was still in the process of ordering furniture, wall hangings and fixtures to make his office the most impressive in town.
“They are everywhere,” Dajan said softly.
“Shh,” Tarzan whispered in reply. “Do not speak Waziri if there is a chance you can be overheard. I’m not supposed to understand it, remember?”
“Jawohl, Meinherr,” Dajan whispered. The ape man smiled. Tarzan made mental notes of the approximate number of Nazis he saw and several prominent buildings which seemed to be under their current control. He would have liked to reconnoiter much longer, but he feared that he risked exposure if he appeared to wander aimlessly. Nazis always seemed to be occupied with some task.
Consequently, he turned and headed toward Consul Wellington’s office. As they approached it, Tarzan turned and led Dajan to the back of the building and around to the other side, keeping under the cover of the bushes and landscaping.
“What are you doing?” Dajan asked, confident that no one would overhear them here.
“I do not have time to ask for an appointment. I believe, however, that I can get in without one. Through here.” He stopped outside the large widow framed by curtains and opening into the consul’s office, a window which Tarzan had noticed the last time he was here. Through it, he could see that Nigel Wellington sat at his desk and, at the moment, alone.
Tarzan told Dajan that he would meet him in the front. He then hoisted himself up and crawled through the open window. Wellington looked up from his paperwork and uttered, “I say…?” before the ape man stood and removed his hat, letting his distinctive shock of black hair fall loose.
