“Corporal, place two of your men on each of the slopes above the prisoners and one at either end. Give the prisoners water and our medical supplies. I’m going to scout the battle by the river and see if we can join our forces there. It sounds like the firing has died down. I’ll be back soon.” With that, Markus mounted his camel and headed in the direction from which the South Africans fled.
As Markus approached the site of the battle along the Orange River, he was surprised to see a mass of soldiers sitting in a tightly packed group, their weapons piled off to the side. Obviously, these men were prisoners. They numbered at least a hundred. There were also many dead and wounded. He rode up to a group of officers and reported the fact of his recent scrimmage and that he too had prisoners.
Commander Frank spoke up, “Good Work, Captain … ?”
“Mathias, sir.”
“Yes, Captain Mathias. I’ll have several of my men bring your prisoners and their wounded here. We’ll march them up country to our garrison.”
“Yes, sir,” Markus took a long drink from his canteen. “How many crossed the border and attacked us, sir?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Commander Franke replied. “Several prisoners said their unit has about three hundred rifles. That’s an astonishingly small number, and as far as we can tell, they didn’t even have a supply train big enough to carry enough ammunition for this sort of operation. I have over a thousand men here right now, and that number is considered small for our mission to intercept any cross-border incursions by the enemy. This defeat suggests to me the gross incompetence of the South Africans—or whoever is in command down there.” He paused and surveyed the disheartened enemy before him.
“An invasion force of three hundred was doomed to failure before they crossed the river. They don’t seem to have learned anything from their Boer War.” He shook his head. “I can only surmise that this was supposed to be some sort of diversion for a much stronger attack, possibly on the coast. I’ve already ordered telegraphs sent to our ports at Lüderitz, Swakopmund, and to Windhoek, alerting them of this attack.”
Commander Frank was about to light a cigarette when Markus offered him one of his. “They’re Turkish, sir. The best smoke I’ve ever had, and this is my last pack … My friend sent them to me from Baghdad.” All three lit up and sat easy in their saddles, watching the wounded being cared for.
“By the way, Captain, thank you for keeping the communication system in good working order. It’s our vital link.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s why I accepted my commission in the army. I came here to build an updated wireless station in Windhoek and improve the telegraph service.”
The commander finished his smoke.
“Sergeant, take a scouting party across the river. Make sure there’re no enemy troops nearby. But do not engage the enemy. We don’t want to give the South Africans a reason to attack again.” As the sergeant rode off, Commander Franke turned to Mathias: “You shouldn’t be in these battles. You’re far too valuable an officer to be in the line of fire.”
He looked intently at Markus for the first time and saw the double Iron Cross ribbons on his uniform. “How did you earn those, Captain?”
“China, sir.”
Commander Franke turned his horse’s head and spurred his mount into a walk. As he left, he nodded toward Mathias, “I’ll have to hear the story behind those sometime.”
A week later, Markus was back at the ranch on a short break from assisting with the mobilization of the German population for the defense of the colony. He rode up to the ranch house and handed the reins of his horse to Sambolo, while Helena hurried out to meet him.
“Oh, dearest, I’m so glad you’re back,” she said breathlessly. “There’s been talk in town of an invasion. And have you heard? They want two of my brothers to enlist!”
He opened his arms and hugged her. “Yes, my love, I was at the Orange River during the attempted invasion. Actually, it was a pretty pathetic display of soldiering. Commander Franke defeated them in no time … had them outnumbered three to one.” As they walked toward the house,
“I’m sorry, but most young men of military age are being called up.”
“At least you’re safe for now, thank the Lord,” she said. “Come in. I just put Rupert down to nap. I’ll fix you something to eat … We’re all waiting to hear what’s going to happen.”
Mounted Soldiers of German South West Africa
CHAPTER 24
Meanwhile in German East Africa: July 7, 1914
From Dar es Salaam, capitol of German East Africa, the train from the coast of the Indian Ocean chugged inland. Through the train window, Captain Levi viewed startling herds of African animals. He was on his way to Tabora, site of the collapsed bridge.
He enjoyed the ocean passage from Kuwait to German East Africa and now was eager to get a firsthand look at the damage. The train churned out black smoke as it left the coastal mangroves and jungle behind. The rattling cars passed miles of grasslands studded with huge, thick-trunked trees, crowned with wide, dark-green canopies.
Tabora was a sleepy, dusty little market town like thousands of others in Africa. The train station was the most significant feature besides the open-air market of farm produce and handwoven textiles, wooden implements, and practical pottery.
Meeting Levi at the station was an overweight railroad man in civilian clothes by the name of Horst Dorfmann. His blue eyes were set deep in his red, puffy face. Ringlets of sweat coursed down to a very damp shirt that absorbed every drop.
“Greetings, Captain Le… Levi, so glad you finally arrived. I’ve been sent out to pick-pick you up. You only have the-the one grip?”
“No, they’re unloading a field trunk with my things. Thank you. How far is the damaged bridge?” Levi scanned the scene before him and realized how primitive the African colony was, at least based on what he had seen so far.
“We’ll take the wa-wagon,” Horst stuttered as he picked up Levi’s grip.
“It’s a two-two hour ride out to the site. They’ve set up a temporary work camp there, but we’ll stay in town tonight and get a-an early start in the morning. There’s no hotel here, so you’ll sta-stay at Schragers’s. He’s a local land owner … Has a ni-nice place. He and his wa-wife.”
It was a nice place, surprisingly nice, Levi thought as he was warmly greeted by the middle-aged couple. Joseph Schrager wore a light-colored summer suit, and his wife, Mina, filled out a white, floor-length, lacy dress that revealed a Rubenesque woman with a quick smile.
“Welcome, Captain. All the way from Baghdad … How interesting,” she said.
“Yes, greetings,” offered Joseph as he ushered Levi onto a polished wood floor in a beautiful sitting room.
“Rashid, please bring our guest a beer and one for me also. Dear?”
“Yes.”
“Three, Rashid.”
Levi eyed the servant.
“He’s from India. There’re many Indians and Arabs here in this part of Africa. Did you know that, Captain?”
“No, I did not. Well, with a capitol named Dar-es-Salaam, I knew there would probably be Arabs,” The beer was brought in on a silver tray with what proved to be freshly baked pretzels.
“You seem to have all the comforts of home,” Levi offered while sinking his teeth into an inch-thick, salt-encrusted pretzel the size of his hand.
“Yes, with the ranch and my local business, we’re doing fine. In a few years, this colony will be known across Africa for its riches.”
“What is your business, Herr Schrager?”
“Ja, I have several interests; the ranch, of course, ivory and hides, but mostly I supply labor to the government, mostly porters. If you want to go somewhere that is not near this railroad, you need porters, lots of them, sometimes hundreds. No roads, you see. And pack animals usually don’t last long … Diseases kill them off, mostly from the tsetse fly.”
“Joseph,” Mina interrupted. “Levi? Yes, Levi may want to freshen u
p a bit before dinner. Shouldn’t Rashid show our guest to his room?”
“Of course, of course. Captain?”
“Yes, that would be nice, but I do have one question, if I may.” Levi looked at his host and continued, “What do you know of the rail trestle collapse?”
The couple looked at each other and held the look a long moment.
“It burned.”
“It burned?”
“Yes, it burned,” Joseph stated emphatically. “Or I should say, it was burned.”
Levi sat up and his eyes widened. “What do you mean, it was burned?”
“I mean, it was burned, and on purpose, by … by—”
“Now, Joseph, you don’t know for sure.”
“I damn well do know for sure! I just don’t have any proof. It was those stinking Hadzas, that’s who it was … And they made a real mess of it. And killed how many? Eleven, right? Eleven, counting that man who just died from his injuries. They’re murderers; that’s what!”
Joseph had worked himself up to the boiling point and could not stop. “We should send Vorbeck out to hunt them all down and shoot ’em.”
“Joseph, please!” Mina looked embarrassed.
“All right, all right, but I know they did it because the whites are moving into their traditional roaming lands and pushing them out. So they burned the trestle, thinking that’s going to stop the whites from seizing more land.”
“Well, you’re probably right about that,” Mina said in a conciliatory tone.
Levi jumped in, “Who are these Hadzas?”
Mina took the question while her husband was lost in his angry thoughts. “They are probably one of the most primitive people on earth—or at least in the colony. They are hunter gatherers, like their ancestors way back in the Stone Age. They travel in small family groups of a dozen or so. They dig roots, hunt mostly small game, pick berries, have almost no possessions, wear almost no clothing, and sit around most of the time singing and chatting away in their primitive language. They don’t seem to have any real leadership in their groups. They just appear to agree on what to do by looks and gestures.”
She stopped, knowing by Levi’s intense stare that she had his full attention. Levi was impressed by this knowledgeable and very articulate woman before him.
“Oh, one other thing, they boil down a certain plant sap. The paste that remains is used to make a deadly poison for their arrows to kill their prey.”
Later in his room, Levi lay awake half the night, turning over in his mind the implications of what he had heard about the trestle sabotage and the Hadza people who might have done it—and their poisonous arrows.
He turned over his thoughts in his head: The trestle burning and train wreck means intense heat and violence to the rails, he thought. That would certainly have bent them, twisted them into scrap metal. Where are the replacements, and how long will it take to get them to the site? Maybe the rails are there already? That would be a stroke of good luck.
He continued turning over in his mind other implications. The tracks were laid on a curved trestle, so the rails aren’t straight …
As he drifted off to sleep, his final thoughts concluded that the “bridge repair job” was turning into a major engineering project.
It was a two-hour wagon ride out to the deep ravine where the wooden trestle once stood. After an early morning breakfast of hard boiled eggs, freshly baked rolls, honey, and coffee with the Schragers, Levi was content to be on his way.
There were two dozen native workers and a dozen whites working the site.
Most of the damaged trestle had been removed—as well as many of the damaged rails. An elaborate hoist system was under construction to bring the engine and tender back up onto the tracks. The three wooden passenger coaches, consumed in the fire, had only their trucks and steel undercarriage still visible.
Horst Dorfmann pulled on the reins to bring the wagon to a halt. “This is Captain Sol-Solomon Levi, sir.” he said haltingly. He addressed a German officer-of-train, Lieutenant Andre Rosenbloom.
“Ah, finally, the bridge engineer! Welcome, Captain Levi. As you see, we’ve been clearing the site for you … salvaging what we felt was still of use.” He pointed to piles of railroad ties, rails, and lumber not burned in the fire. “You, of course, will make the final judgment as to what is still useable. Have you any questions, Captain?”
After saluting the lieutenant, Levi asked a pressing question: “Yes, when can we expect replacement rails and the lumber for the new trestle?”
“Ah, the most important question first, sir. The lumber is being shipped from the coast as we speak. As a matter of fact, some of it came in on the train you arrived on. The rails are a bit problematic, shall we say. We will have to survey the inventory along the line. You will have to build your trestle based on what rails are available in country. We’ve already started the search.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Another question: What about the Hadzas, the ones that burned—sabotaged—the line?”
“Ah, the Hadzas. Yes, they roam this part of the colony. And yes, they are angry about being pushed further afield, but there is no proof they started the fire. It could have been British saboteurs, what with all the war talk … or an accident … The train’s embers could have started a fire in the ravine … Fires along the tracks are not infrequent.”
“So the Hadzas probably aren’t responsible?”
“Captain, sir, the Hadzas are a primitive people, but they are not stupid. They would gain nothing from burning one trestle.” He paused and added, “Shall we inspect the site now, sir?”
Levi spent the next ten days in the ravine and the surrounding approaches, figuring the fastest way to build a new trestle, hoping they would soon find the necessary rails. Late one afternoon, back in Tabora, he visited the local military base, such as it was, a very spartan unit of several officers, several dozen soldiers, and a contingent of native Schutztruppen. It did have, however, a telegraph station.
Levi sent a telegram to Katherina and included a brief greeting to his parents. His message was short and to the point: project delay, more later, etc., was all he could offer with his greetings. Even so, he felt better having sent Katherina the message. As an afterthought, Levi decided to send his friend Markus a telegram also, wishing him well and including his mailing address.
The telegraph operator, a corporal, said, “Sir, we estimate your message to Germany will take a full day or more, depending on the atmospheric conditions and the traffic. Lately, the weather has disrupted our wireless transmissions most every day. No predicting it, sir. Your other telegram should arrive at Windhoek in several hours, at most.”
“Thank you, Corporal.” Levi walked back to the Schragers and dinner. Light talk and a glass of port offered by Joseph brought the evening to an early close.
Tuesday, August 4, 1914, found Levi attending a small afternoon lawn party that Mina and Joseph had prepared for a dozen friends. Most conversations debated the chance of war and its effect on the African colonies.
“We do have the Congo Pact,” someone offered. “It should insulate us from the European conflict if war does come to Europe.”
Levi, only half-listening, was lost in his own thoughts. He had tried everything to speed up the reconstruction of the rail bridge and had made steady progress.
Another week or so, and it will be finished, he thought to himself as he drained off a stein of beer. He had already discussed his pending departure with his commander, contingent on a final inspection of the finished trestle. The overall military commanding officer of the German East African Protectorate was Lieutenant-Colonel Paul von Lettow Vorbeck. He and Levi had several long discussions after realizing they both had been in China at the same time during the Boxer Rebellion.
“Yes, I’ve approved your transit and separation papers. You have a choice: take one of our supply ships from Dar es Salaam to Bremerhaven, a three week trip, or take a ship back the way you came to Kuwait and from there take a trai
n from Baghdad to Munich. What do you think, Captain?”
“I prefer the train from Baghdad, sir. I can look over my work on that railroad again.”
They both smiled before Vorbeck added a cautionary note: “If there is a war soon, the Kaiser quite probably will be in the thick of it. If that happens, you may wish you were back in Africa!”
They both had a good laugh at that, downplaying the all-too-real tensions in Europe. Vorbeck concluded, “Finish your bridge, and you’ll be on the next ship home. You’ve earned it.”
Joseph Schrager approached the two military men with Rashid close behind, carrying a tray of half-liter beer mugs.
“I hope you gentlemen are enjoying yourselves … Care for another beer?” All three men took a stein off the tray.
“Prost!” saluted Vorbeck, and they all had a hearty drink.
“It’s cordial of you and Frau Schrager to open your home like this. It appears to be the social center of Tabora,” Levi offered with a grin.
“Why, thank you, Captain. I, that is, we, enjoy entertaining, and I always learn something new at our gatherings … and of course, we enjoy the company.”
Rashid disappeared into the house, but he reappeared several moments later, carrying a yellow envelope. He walked briskly up to Schrager and said, “A message for you, sir, and a gentleman waits in the front hall.” Schrager hesitated a moment, looking first at the unopened telegram and then to the house.
He began walking briskly toward the house, followed by Vorbeck and Levi. His hands tore open the yellow envelope as he entered the front entry hall.
“Who is it? Oh, Lancaster! What are you doing here?” He stared at the big man in dusty, brown boots and clothes to match. Vorbeck and Levi stood to the side, eyeing the newcomer.
Joseph hesitated, turning reluctantly to the two soldiers “This is Sidney Lancaster, my ivory hunter. He’s excellent at bringing down big game. He hunts here and up in British country, north of Kilimanjaro.” He shifted to the hunter. “Sidney, this is Lieutenant-Colonel….” He finished the hurried introductions, “You’re two weeks early.” Schrager’s eyes looked back and forth between the three men.
The Storm That Shook the World Page 12
