A small force of over a thousand men should, by rights, have reached Songo quickly. After all, Tete was only a hundred kilometers from Songo—a journey of merely three or four days.
But the Blacks' marching speed left Klee, the accompanying French instructor leading the force, utterly at his wits' end. They dawdled and dragged their feet all the way; four full days had passed, and they still had not arrived. Mozambique was currently in the dry season, and marching across the dry grasslands was not particularly difficult.
The Portuguese officer, however, was quite satisfied with this pace. In his view, there was no need whatsoever for a forced march. Songo was merely a small outpost, and Portugal had launched the war without warning. He believed the East Africans could not possibly have prepared in advance, so there was nothing wrong with taking their time along the way. After all, walking a dozen or so kilometers each day counted as meeting the standard.
Riding his horse, Klee said to the Portuguese commander, "Captain Rod, can you have the troops pick up the pace? We're going to war, not out for a picnic."
Reclining lazily in a crude sedan chair carried by Blacks, Rod said, "Second Lieutenant Klee, what are you in such a hurry for? The Germans are right there. They won't run away, and they couldn't possibly know about our operation beforehand."
Klee said, "What if German scouts spot us? Then this operation may well go down the drain!"
"You're worrying too much, Second Lieutenant Klee. We haven't even seen the Germans' shadow these past few days. They won't discover our movements in advance."
"But..." Klee still wanted to say more.
Rod impatiently cut him off. "How about this? We'll march an extra half hour each day—no, twenty minutes