Chapter nineteen:
For the Congo III--- 1907
The two months of training
There are no distinct stories from those two months of training that stand out in my mind. Each day blurred into the next, a monotonous march of preparation. While I can recount the skills I acquired in broad strokes, pinpointing specific conversations or events has proven impossible over time. Yet, while I cannot offer moments of wit or anecdotes of heroism, I can share the essential lessons that defined this period.
One of the first lessons I learned was the importance of properly adjusting my pack. Despite being warned about the consequences of getting it wrong, I made the novice mistake of tightening the straps too much, shifting the burden to my lower vertebrae instead of distributing the weight onto my hips where it belonged.
Conrad berated me for nearly ten minutes, emphasizing the potential for permanent back damage during such intensive training. He explained the delicate balance required when tightening the straps---too loose, and the weight would strain the hips; too tight, and the lower back would bear an undue load.
Over time, I came to understand this balance through experience. Straps pulled too tightly placed dangerous strain on the lower back, while those left too loose shifted the burden entirely to the hips, risking joint pain and unnecessary stress on the tendons of the legs.
This error meant my training schedule was disrupted. Instead of alternating between skill days and hikes, I was confined to three consecutive skill days to allow my back to recover.
The skills I learned, however, were both unique and captivating, each demanding my full attention. For example, I was taught how to treat gunshot wounds, with methods varying depending on the location of the injury: from packing and applying pressure to simple bandaging. Similarly, I learned the proper process for purifying water, combining iodine drops with boiling to ensure safety.
Compass navigation became another critical skill. Conrad and Nicholas set up a course in the woods where I had to rely on a map, a compass, and pacing measurements to locate hidden caches. It was an enlightening exercise that allowed them to correct my errors in real time.
Of all the skills I practiced, shooting proved to be the most exhilarating. Before handling the rifle, I was thoroughly drilled on the three cardinal rules of firearm safety.
The rifles provided for training were prototypes from a new American military supplier, Raytheon. A relatively young company, they served as the Freikorps' primary source of equipment. The rifle featured a wooden body and a semi-automatic mechanism, its recoil cycling the next round into the chamber instead of relying on a manual bolt.
Unlike traditional rifles, which used stripper clips, this weapon employed a self-contained magazine inserted below the trigger. I recall being surprised by how lightweight the magazines felt, likely constructed from aluminum or another light material.
The rifle was remarkably accurate, with iron sights adjustable from fifty to four hundred meters. While hitting targets consistently at the maximum range was unrealistic, the design allowed for semi-accurate suppressive fire, which seemed its primary purpose.
Over time, I developed proficiency at the standard one hundred-meter range, consistently hitting targets with ease. Distances shorter than this posed no challenge, but my accuracy faltered at intermediary ranges between the sight settings. Such shortcomings, I learned, would later be addressed with adjustable iron sights in future rifle designs.
Physical training proved grueling during the initial weeks. My legs, unaccustomed to such strain, often gave out first. However, as my endurance improved, the strain shifted to my shoulders, which lacked the strength to maintain tension over the prolonged hikes required of me.
Without adequate muscle strength to counterbalance the load, the weight bore down on my bones, causing rapid fatigue. It became clear that I needed to focus on building endurance.
The solution, Conrad explained, was climbing. A training wall was erected, and I was required to spend two hours each day scaling it, regardless of my schedule. Climbing, he assured me, was one of the most effective exercises to strengthen my shoulders and forearms, while also being remarkably time-efficient.
To me, climbing represented the pinnacle of physical challenge—a pure and demanding test of strength, discipline, and perseverance. Each ascent was a trial to be conquered, with room for constant refinement and improvement. Even when the summit was reached, the quest for speed, grace, and mastery remained. At the time, it struck me as both inspiring and disheartening that, through this training, I found myself among the most physically capable of my generation.
This realization would linger with me, influencing the reforms I would later champion in education. When the time came to shape the nation's youth, I made physical rigor an integral component of their development, recognizing its transformative power. As Socrates once said, "It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable." Let this be a lesson to you, dear reader: if you aspire to follow any semblance of my path, strive first to cultivate the strength of your body. Only through this foundation can you build the fortitude necessary to face life's trials. It was through this very discipline that I structured my own days, each one designed to forge the mind and body into something greater.
As for those two months, my routine remained consistent: a day of learning new skills followed by hours of climbing, then a weighted hike the next day. The pattern repeated with relentless regularity. While the regimen was rigorous, the skills themselves were straightforward enough that they could be mastered in a typical youth program over two years.
By the end of my training, I fell short of the expected carry weight goal. While I was meant to manage eighty pounds over ten miles, I could only sustain sixty pounds with consistency.
I cannot say for certain why I failed to meet the target. Perhaps the accelerated training schedule played a role, though it seemed achievable in theory. I suspect the miles skipped due to shoulder soreness accumulated, ultimately hindering my progress.
Chapter twenty:
For the Congo --- 1907 - June 9th
The morning
The beginning of the journey was, to my disappointment, uneventful. Gustav had handled all the arrangements, including purchasing the boat tickets, leaving me ignorant of the cost. The only frame of reference I had came from an article I once read detailing a journey from Britain to South Africa in 1910, which cost approximately eleven pounds per person.
One pleasant surprise was the lightness of my rucksack. Though I had trained to carry sixty pounds over ten miles, my pack, containing only my gear and painting supplies, weighed a mere twenty-three to twenty-seven pounds. It was less than half of what I had prepared for.
What intrigued me most was how Gustav had managed to secure permission for Nicholas and Conrad to bring their rifles aboard. Naturally, the weapons were unloaded and stored securely under the captain's desk, but the act itself seemed highly irregular. I could only surmise that Gustav had greased the captain's palms, for transporting firearms to Belgian-controlled territory was undoubtedly illegal.
Before boarding, I knew I had to bid farewell to my mother. Leaving without saying goodbye would have been unthinkable, regardless of her disappointment in my decision. Though the odds of my demise were slim, I could not risk her final memory of me being one of discord. A son owes his loved ones better than that.
On the dock, I embraced my mother one last time.
"I love you, Mom. I'll be on my best behavior, I promise," I said, forcing a reassuring smile in an attempt to ease her heart.
As I released her, she gripped my shoulders firmly, her tear-filled eyes searching mine before she spoke.
"I wish you wouldn't go, Adolf. The only reason I'm allowing this is because I see how important this journey is to you."
"But I need you to promise me something," she said, her voice trembling.
"Promise me, Adolf, that you'll never undertake something like this again. And I want you to mean it."
Her words left me silent. I could not lie to her; my upbringing forbade such dishonesty.
With solemnity, I accepted her request.
"I promise, Mom. I won't do anything like this again. You have my word," I said earnestly.
She searched my face for any hint of deception but found none. At last, she released me.
With a heavy heart, I turned and boarded the ship. I ascended the steps, showed my ticket, located my room, and began putting away my belongings. After settling in, I made my way toward the rear of the ship, near the dining area, where Conrad and Nicholas had agreed to meet me.
When I arrived, I found Conrad and Nicholas seated at a table, engrossed in an animated debate over some nonsensical "what if" scenarios. As I sat down and began to ask a question—its content now lost to memory—it suddenly dawned on me: I had made a grave mistake. I had not brought anything substantial to occupy my time for the duration of the journey.
A quick glance at my ticket confirmed the extent of my oversight. I had brought nothing but a few decks of cards for what was to be a grueling twenty-nine to thirty-one-day voyage. In that moment, I cursed my own shortsightedness.
No divine intervention could have spared me from the tedium that awaited. Those thirty-one days proved to be among the most monotonous of my life, with the only reprieve being the endless games of "war" played between the three of us with those cards.
July 10th
At last, the ordeal came to an end as we approached the port. With passports and gear, including our weapons, in hand, we disembarked unsteadily after thirty-one days at sea. To my astonishment, customs officials barely glanced at our belongings, even the conspicuous presence of two firearms.
We were waved through after presenting our legitimate passports for stamping. I could only surmise that such leniency toward armed travelers was a routine occurrence in Africa; no other explanation seemed plausible.
Our first stop after disembarking was a sprawling grassy field just two blocks from the docks, dedicated entirely to currency exchange. The sheer number of people crowded into rough rows was staggering. Many sat beside crates of money, shouting rates and figures I could scarcely comprehend.
The air was thick with the names of countless currencies: the pound, franc, dollar, peseta, mark, guilder, lira, and numerous others that escaped my recollection.
Rather than splitting up to handle our exchanges individually, we entrusted our money to Conrad. Towering over most and carrying the presence of authority with his weapon, he seemed the ideal choice to secure a favorable deal. He disappeared into the throng, eventually striking a bargain with a vendor after several minutes of negotiation.
Less than twenty minutes later, Conrad returned with a pouch brimming with currency, which he distributed evenly among us. With that matter settled, we proceeded toward a nearby residential area.
Our first priority in the residential area was to refill our water containers, a task we hadn't been able to complete upon disembarking. Purchasing a bucket from a vendor, we fetched roughly a gallon of water from a communal well, purifying it with a few drops of iodine. After filling our containers, we handed the remaining water to a nearby local, who accepted it with a nod of gratitude.
With our water secured, our next objective was to purchase train tickets, as missing the evening commute was not an option. Upon arriving at the station, I was struck by how familiar it felt—eerily similar to the stations in Austria or Britain, as though it had been transplanted into the African landscape without alteration.
After securing our tickets to the mining town and enduring an hour-long wait for the train, we finally boarded and settled into our seats. Once again, I found myself marveling at the casual attitude toward firearms. The only requirement was that they be stored in a locked box for the duration of the journey.
Under ordinary circumstances, such items would be strictly prohibited. Yet the Ticketmaster's indifference made it clear that this was no ordinary place.
Settling into my seat, I glanced at my freshly punched ticket, which confirmed that the journey ahead would span two full days. I sighed audibly, the weight of impending monotony already pressing down on me. Sensing my despair, Nicholas grinned and produced an unexpected lifeline: a chessboard he had purchased en route to the station.
I didn't bother asking where or when he had acquired the battered board. Grinning, I called dibs on playing White first, eager for the distraction. As the train began its slow departure, I had already claimed victory twice—a small triumph against the tedium that awaited us.