In Which Mimi and Toutou Go to War

Normally, war stories just aren't my sort of thing.  If the truth be known, tales of military tactics and battlefield heroics usually leave me yawning and reaching for the books discussing goblin cats and unexpected arsenic in the tea.  However, now and then I stumble across a person who makes me change my view of warfare and welcome them into the hallowed gates of Strange Company HQ.

Enter, Geoffrey Basil Spicer-Simson.

Spicer-Simson was born in Tasmania in 1876, but was educated in his father's native England.  At the age of 14, he entered the Royal Navy, where by 1898 he achieved the level of lieutenant.  Unfortunately, his career stalled, due largely to our hero's manifest incompetence.  On one occasion, he nearly sank a submarine during a training exercise.  On another, he drove a ship onto a beach.  And, of course, there was the memorable day when he crashed a destroyer into another naval ship, killing one of the sailors.  His brash, eccentric personality (one of his biographers describes him simply as "a deeply irritating man,") did not help matters.

However, Spicer-Simson did have some talent for surveying, a task he carried out in China and Africa.  After the beginning of WWI, he was given an office post in the Admiralty.  His task was transferring Merchant sailors to the War Navy.  His superiors evidently believed that the further away from battle he was, the better it would be for their side.  Spicer-Simson, it soon emerged, was peculiarly unsuited for such a routine desk job.  His special talents lay elsewhere.  

In April of 1915, the British learned that the Germans were planning to take control over Africa's Lake Tanganyika.  If they succeeded, it would strengthen the enemy's position throughout German East Africa.  To counter this threat, the British Navy prepared to send a small expedition to challenge the German warships.  As Spicer-Simson was familiar with Africa and fluent in German, he was given the task of leading what the Navy brass assumed would be a routine mission, ridiculously minor and uninteresting compared to the epic conflicts taking place in Europe.

Spicer-Simson's expedition may have been minor, but he was damned if it was going to be uninteresting.

The plan was simple:  Spicer-Simson would be given two small wooden ships with a motor and cannon attached to each one.  (Geoffrey wanted to name them “Cat” and “Dog,” but after these were rejected by the Admiralty, he settled on “Mimi” and “Toutou.”  He later explained that these meant “Miaow” and “Bow-Wow” in French.)  These vessels would be trundled across Africa before being dropped into Lake Tanganyika.  It was assumed that after this, the Germans would either be awed by the majesty of the British Navy or die laughing.  Spicer-Simson's crew was happily suited for the enterprise.  His chief engineer had not the slightest idea how the ship's engines worked.  Another of his sailors was known as "Piccadilly Johnny."  He had dyed bright yellow hair and a monocle, and insisted on taking along two boxes of Worcester sauce, which he drank straight out of the bottle.  The sanest member of the expedition was a chimpanzee named Josephine, who would join the crew for meals. Oh, and don't forget the two Scotsmen in kilts.  It was as if the Marx Brothers decided to make a war movie.

Spicer-Simson, heavily covered in “macabre tattoos,” was the perfect commander for this crew.  Despite having little knowledge of semaphore, he persisted in waving around the flags, perfectly indifferent to the fact that he was spelling out gibberish.  He was also in the habit of giving orders while flourishing a fly-swatter and keeping a cigarette holder in his mouth, leaving his words as unintelligible as his flag messages.  He proudly made himself a bogus Admiral's flag for his ship, donned a skirt--feeling that was more appropriate attire for the tropical climate--dressed his goat mascot in a British uniform, and announced that he was more than ready to take on the German Navy.

When the enemy first caught sight of this floating sideshow, they gave themselves over to the greatest merriment.  Being confronted by this egomaniacal loon and his daffy crew was an unexpected comedy bonanza.  The Germans, chuckling all the while, opted to ignore him.

It never pays to underestimate egomaniacal loons.  Because, you see, the funniest thing is that Spicer-Simson beat them silly.  While the enemy fleet was busy laughing at the self-made Admiral, he was capturing some of their boats and sinking others, to the point where he quickly had the Germans rendered a virtually spent force.  Their stranglehold on Lake Tanganyika was permanently broken.  "Simson's Circus" (as the expedition had been dubbed by the press) had accomplished what was among the most unlikely victories in British naval history.

The awed local tribes decided that Spicer-Simson must have had supernatural powers, and began worshiping him as a god.  They made clay effigies of the Englishman and gave him the titles of "Navyman God" and (in honor of his skirt) "Lord Bellycloth."  Spicer-Simson was not at all displeased.  He had only thought to promote himself to the rank of Admiral.  Divinity was an unexpected bonus.  

When the "Circus" came home, the Navy gave them more traditional honors.  Spicer-Simson was awarded the Distinguished Service Order.  Three of his men received the Distinguished Service Cross, and twelve others were given Distinguished Service Medals.  Later, he was appointed a Commander of the Belgian Order of the Crown.

After the war, Spicer-Simson became Assistant Director of Naval Intelligence.  He was a delegate and translator at the Versailles Peace Conference.  In 1919, he was elected secretary-general of the International Hydrographic Bureau.  His final years were spent in British Columbia, where he gave lectures on his war exploits until his death in January 1947.  All in all, a respectable ending to what at first had promised to be a singularly unmemorable career.

As I said, never underestimate the loons.  They find ways of getting the job done.