The uneasiness grows as we continue to await our orders. For hours, our signalmen exchange frantic flag messages with the nearby gunboat Habicht. Several of the marines try to interpret the signals, and rumors spread quickly: “The revolt is over. We’re heading home tomorrow.”
“No, it’s only just beginning. This is going to be a long, drawn-out campaign.”
I think most of us hope the first rumor is true. We’ve already had enough of the heat, and there’s nothing enticing about the looks of this country.
I head to my sweltering quarters again that night, not knowing what tomorrow will bring. As we rock in a heavy swell, sleep doesn’t come easy. And when it does, my dreams are torn with strange images and unfamiliar sounds.
We get our orders early in the morning. We’re disembarking.
It’s easier said than done. It’s just past dawn, but already the sun is beating down, and the sea is rough. We line up on deck with all of our combat gear strapped on our bodies. The men closest to the rail look squeamish as they approach the rope ladder to make the descent to a flatboat rising and sinking on the treacherous waves. They have to time their jump from the ladder to the boat while it’s on a crest or they could end up dropping more than seven meters or, worse yet, missing the flatboat entirely.
Clambering down the rope ladders in rough seas is always tricky. But today, we have to do it with our knapsacks and blankets strapped to our backs, guns on our shoulders, cartridge belt with dangling water bottle cinched about our waists, and bread bag and flask hanging from another strap. I watch as, one by one, the men clumsily make the descent. There are a few close calls, but no real mishaps, as the first thirty men fill the flatboat, which is then towed to shore by a tugboat.
At last, it’s my turn. Shifting my knapsack and adjusting the bundles of medical supplies tied about me, I waddle to the rail and look down. The boat, nearly full, flounders in the waves, violently hitting the side of the ship and then jerking away. “I can’t do this,” I think. Panic nearly paralyzes me when Epenstein’s horror story of the young sailor lost at sea flashes through my mind. I calm myself. If all the other men can do it, I can too. Praying that I won’t be the first casualty, I carefully lower myself over the rail, feeling for the top rung with my foot. Rung by rung, I cautiously descend, training my eyes on anything but the churning waves below. As I near the bottom, I finally look down, trying to find the flatboat. I see nothing but the waves crashing violently against each other. “Jump!” an officer shouts from somewhere beneath me. All the hours of drills kick in as I automatically obey the command. I let go of the rope ladder – and fall.
I land in a heap against one of the marines. Just as I try to pull myself off of him, the boat plunges into a trough, throwing me against him again. Someone gives me a hand to help me steady myself in the rocking boat. “Good job, Doctor,” a voice says. I move quickly to avoid being knocked over by the next man falling into the boat.
When we can squeeze no one else in, the boat is fastened to the tugboat for the rough ride over the crashing surf. The boat pounds against the waves, plunging into troughs so deep that I can’t see the Wörmann steamer grounded nearby. Then, just as suddenly, it rises to the top of a watery precipice only to fling downward again. With every heave, the boat shudders as if it’s about to break apart. It takes on so much water that I’m soaked to the skin. Several of the men, overcome with seasickness, lie in the bottom of the boat; others pray for our safety. A few Catholics discreetly cross themselves as they whisper their “Hail Marys.”
At last, we emerge from the torrent into smooth water that carries us to the sandy beach. As we wait for the rest of the men to join us, we take a few minutes to calm our nerves and reassemble our baggage. Squinting against the summer sun that reflects off everything as if it were a metallic surface, I watch in wonder as the Kroo-boys maneuver lighters, a type of flatboat loaded with our heavy artillery and horses, through the turbulent surf.
“Welcome to the Mole,” a Schutztruppe captain calls out as he walks toward us.
“The Mole?” the lieutenant asks.
“That’s what the locals call it. It was supposed to be a manmade harbor, but the ocean has other ideas.” The captain points to a large sandbar that threatens to choke off access to the pier. “The ocean controls everything around here. See the lighthouse over there? That’s the second one since I came here. The first one was washed out by a giant wave. This is a tough land, but it grows on you if you have the grit to handle it.”
“What’s with the steamer?” The lieutenant nods toward the grounded Gertrud Wörmann.
“She wrecked last year,” the captain says. “It’s a wonder more ships aren’t lost, what with this cursed surf. But it’s not a total waste. The Wörmann line is using the Gertrud as an internment camp for Herero laborers and prisoners here in Swakopmund. By keeping them locked up on the ship when they’re not working, we can make sure they don’t go home to join the uprising.”
Everything has been unloaded, and now the real work begins. We make a semblance of marching through the deep hot sand, weighed down by our waterlogged gear, as the heat of the sun literally sizzles off our wet uniforms. We had expected to be greeted with a parade, with throngs of German settlers thanking us for coming to their rescue. Instead, we’re met with silence and a sense of desolation. If this is an omen, I think it doesn’t bode well for us.
Trudging in rhythm to the pounding surf, we pass a few wooden houses that look as if they’re losing the battle with the encroaching sands. Two pelicans, each nearly as big as a small man, spread their pink-tinged gray wings and strut for a minute before resuming their feather grooming. As we pass another house, I see a weathered man standing in the shadow of the verandah. There’s no welcome on his face – only a weary indifference.
A semblance of a town begins to appear as we march onward. Much of it seems to be under construction. Several strong black men – Herero, I’m guessing – do the heavy lifting under an armed German overseer. They’re building a tower on the elaborate Wörmann headquarters. And more work is being done on the statehouse that sprawls beneath the lighthouse. I’m surprised to see a modern hospital and the elegant two-floor headquarters for the Eastern and South African Telegraph Company. Despite my first impressions, I rather like this frontier town and its optimistic outlook.
At last, we reach the start of the Otavi Mining and Railway narrow-gauge line that stretches east across the desert to Windhük, the colonial capital. Although the rail line is still under construction, the tracks already look old and rusted. We take turns going into the makeshift station to brew some coffee for the long train ride. Nearby, I see the beginning of what looks like a grand station.
We wait quietly for our train, blinded by the sun’s relentless glare and sobered by the reality that our trek is far from over. At this moment, I would willingly travel all the way across the ocean in that flimsy flatboat, tossing in the most violent waves, if it meant I could be home with my family instead of in this harsh land.
ACROSS THE DESERT
I hear the train before I see it, an old rattletrap coughing and sputtering its way toward us, hissing with steam. I stare in disbelief as it creeps along. Seven tiny engines, looking as if they came out of some tinker’s shed, pull an endless string of open wooden boxes on wheels – boxes we’re supposed to ride in with no protection from the sun. Perched precariously on the 610-mm track, the train seems more of a toy than a reliable mode of transportation across the Namib Desert. We count off and are herded into the gondolas, as the boxes are called, while the Kroo-boys load all the artillery, horses, and supplies into some of the rail cars.
Shouldering my way to the side of the small gondola the medical staff is to ride in, I rest my arms on the chest-high wooden wall so I can gaze out at the strange land we’re passing through. With several puffs and a lot of rattling, the train jerks forward. And just as we had in the flatboats, we fall against each other and then steady ourselves for the long haul to
the interior of the colony.
Hour after hour, the train climbs slowly upward through an endless expanse of rust-colored dunes, rising like giant waves from the desert floor. At first, I’m intrigued by the wind-blown lines in the dunes, their ragged crests, the cloud shadows spilling over the sands. But the scenery quickly becomes monotonous in the unbearable heat. I take a slow sip from my water flask, swirling the wetness slowly around my mouth, letting a little seep over my lips to cool them from the burning sun.
Another surgeon cautions some of the men in the next car who are gulping their water. “You need to make it last,” he says. “Who knows when we will get more.”
Some nod and put their flasks away, but others shrug and continue drinking.
After a few hours, the train rattles to a stop. We’re told to get out and stretch our legs and take care of any necessities. One of the men takes a swig of the coffee brewed in Swakopmund. “Puh!” he spits it out, making a horrid face. “It’s soured!” He tosses the rest of his coffee onto the ground. A few others sip from their coffee with the same results. The rest of us reluctantly spill our coffee into the sand, where it quickly evaporates, leaving only dark stains.
The break is over too soon. This time when we pile back into the gondolas, I sit with my back against the wall and my legs tucked under me. But soon, my legs grow numb and I’m forced to stand once again.
Late in the afternoon, the train creaks to a stop with much hissing and sputtering. The narrow track in front of us rises steeply as the land continues its ascent. One of the engineers hops down and motions for us to get out of the cars. The long train can’t make it up the steep grade, so we have to disassemble the cars and rearrange them into three shorter trains. That means carrying each car to its new position.
Amidst a bit of muttered grumbling, the men stack their gear out of the way and shuffle back through the hot sand to do the heavy lifting. I’m pushed aside when I step up to help move the car I’ve been riding in. “We don’t need an injured doctor,” the lieutenant barks at me. “What good would you be then?”
As the marines strain to carry the wooden cars to their newly assigned places on the track, I help unload the medical supplies from the freight cars and then reload them when the gondolas are realigned. A few of the other surgeons, who are resting in the sand, glare at me. They finally get up to help stack the medical gear back in the cars. We’re told we’ll have to walk as the engines can’t pull our weight up the incline. We stand back as the first train tries to inch forward. It soon becomes obvious that we have to add some manpower to the horsepower of the engines. The marines get behind the engines and cars and push as the train creeps up the track. Again, I’m not permitted to help, so I trudge slowly up the sandy hill with the rest of the surgeons and some of the officers.
At last, all the cars and engines are reassembled into one long train again. We’re not really at the top, but the grade levels out enough for the train to continue on its own steam and in one long line. The men, covered in sweat and sand, flop exhaustedly into the cars. A marine in the next gondola drains the last few drops from his water bottle. Noticing his sun-cracked lips and labored breathing, I offer him a drink from my canteen.
As the sun sinks toward the horizon, we finally reach the top of our ascent. I look back at the way we’ve come. The narrow track stretches downward, a thin thread in the rusty sands that flow toward the ocean, which is little more than a blue speck on the distant horizon. It’s hard to believe that just this morning I was in a ship on that ocean. I swallow, tasting nothing but sand and wishing I had even a drop of the soured coffee I had so thoughtlessly tossed.
“Look at that!” one of the men hoarsely exclaims.
I turn to look toward the front of the train. Huge, wild mountains of naked rock jut out of the sand, row upon row, forming what appears to be an impenetrable barrier that stretches as far as the eye can see. The closest mountains glint steely gray in the setting sun, while the more distant ones rise up like shrouded specters on the horizon. A sudden chill comes over me as the train begins winding through the rocks towering ominously over us. A deep foreboding settles over me. It’s as if these mountains are telling us to go home. Hoping to shake off the uneasiness, I peer into the twilight to make out the alien landscape.
A bone-chilling cold descends quickly in the high desert. We wrap our white woolen blankets tightly about us and huddle together to keep warm. We ride in silence through the dark mountains cutting into the star-speckled sky, each lost in thoughts of home and the strangeness of this land. We’ve been told to have our guns loaded and ready – an unwelcome reminder that this is more than just an uncomfortable trek through the wilderness. It’s another night with little sleep.
The sun rises early, and with it comes the heat of the day. There’s no stopping as we continue through the mountain rifts. It’s too dangerous, we’re told, and besides, there’s no water for hundreds of kilometers. “You had better get used to it,” the lieutenant tells us. “We’ve got three more days before we roll into Windhük.”
“Three more days!” a few of the men grumble.
There’s little talking as we creak along the tracks – our throats are too dry to speak. Listlessly, I drain the last few drops from my canteen well before noon. Oh well, we’ll be stopping soon, I figure. The next station has to have water.
It’s a little after noon when we finally roll into a station so the engines can refill their water tanks. I join the others crowding around the water troughs. In their thirst, the men closest to the water cup their hands for a quick drink. Almost simultaneously, they spit it out in disgust. “It’s full of salt!” one of them sputters in a raspy voice.
For now, I must satisfy myself with a bit of boiled rice. The half-cooked grains dull the hunger pangs a bit, but they do nothing for my thirst. I think ahead to the long afternoon with no water. I’m going to have to do a better job of rationing if I’m to survive.
I doze off and on through the afternoon, trying to ignore the dryness burning my throat and the cracking of my lips. But even in my fitful dreams, I find no relief as the relentless motion of the train and the scorching rays of the sun penetrate my subconscious. I’m searching for Hanna, calling out to her to bring me some water. But she’s nowhere to be found. Someone jostles against me, and I wearily open my eyes to the sun’s glare.
Coming out of my stupor, I look around and see that the landscape has changed again. The dark mountains are behind us, and now we’re rolling across a wide plain with patches of tall dry grass interspersed with thorny brambles. We’re told it’s called a veld. A herd of antelope grazes on the grass, ignoring the rattling of the train. One of the officers shoots his gun. The animals spring into the air, running and jumping swiftly across the veld. The officer laughs. “That’s why they’re called springbok,” he says.
As we progress across the plain, the thorn bushes become so dense they form a thicket in places. Not for the first time, I marvel at the stamina, and stubbornness, of the men who laid the rail track across this inhospitable country. And again, I question why we would want this as a colony.
Here and there, isolated mounds of rock interrupt the savannah, and strange cones – I’m told they’re termite hills – pop up out of the scraggly grass like half-finished sculptures of sand. In the distance, herds of giraffe and deer-like animals chase across the veld. Suddenly, Heston, one of the men in the next gondola, grabs his gun and takes aim at a black figure squatting a few meters away. We laugh when we see it’s a baboon.
“I thought it was a Herero,” he says.
We become more cheerful as we approach what looks like a farm of sorts. But the laughter quickly gives way to silence when we get close enough to see it’s only what’s left of a farm. The train stops, but we don’t get out. Instead, we soberly take in our first sight of the rebellion. The small house has been burned; its tin roof pulled off. Bits and pieces of broken furniture litter the ground around the charred ruins. I spot a mound of white st
ones on the edge of what used to be a garden. A makeshift wooden cross marks the grave, bearing the words: “Fallen by the hand of the murderer.”
A few scruffy Germans, who identify themselves as sailors from the Habicht, step out of the rubble to report to our officers. Their uniforms are so dirty and stained brown that it’s nearly impossible to tell they’re marine uniforms. One of the men, recognizing a friend from home, stops at the gondola next to mine. “Karl, how did you ever talk them into taking a flat foot like you?”
“Dieter?” Karl asks incredulously. “I didn’t recognize you under all that dirt and hair.”
Dieter nods solemnly, stroking a matted beard. “We stained our uniforms with coffee and tobacco so the Herero couldn’t spot us so easily from a distance. I haven’t been out of these clothes for three weeks. No bath. No shave. And a lot of hard work.” He glances toward the grave.
“But everything is about over, right?”
Dieter attempts a hollow laugh. “Hardly,” he says. “We’ve had some heavy losses, and I’m sure there will be a lot more before this thing ends.”
“Losses? You mean ... deaths?” a young volunteer asks nervously.
“This is not a game, boy,” Dieter says flatly. “Germans are dying. We’ve lost several men in the last week.”
“But ... how?” The boy swallows hard. I recognize him as one of the young ones who was always bragging about how the Germans would wipe out the Herero in a matter of days.
“The Herero have guns. Good ones that they got from us. They shoot well. And this God-damned country is taking its toll, too.” Dieter looks at Karl as the train starts to lurch forward. “I hope you return to your mother.”
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 17
