I know the headman. He’s the one who tried to take me. I look for Ikuaterua. He isn’t there. I fill my water jar and pouches. I hear the men whisper. I can’t hear their words. The others wait to see what the headman does. He watches me. But he doesn’t come close.
When I have my water, I quietly leave the waterhole. The pouches are almost too heavy. I bend over. The branch keeps me from falling. I take very small steps. I have to stop after each one. I breathe deeply. And then take another step.
I’m a little way from the waterhole when the headman laughs. It’s an ugly laugh. “Inaavinuise!” he shouts at me.
The other men laugh. But their laughter is sad.
I don’t turn around. It would take too much effort. I need the little strength I have to get back to my hiding place. I’ll need to rest there before I can look for food. Each step brings pain. I keep my eyes on my hiding place and make myself keep going. At last, I reach the trees. I cry when I drop to the ground. The tears run into the open sores on my cheeks. They bring more pain.
The pain will go away, I tell myself. But the sores will take many, many tomorrows to heal. That’s good. They will protect me. Just like they did today. I think about what the headman called me. Inaavinuise. Mother of maggots. I look at my arms and legs. I can see the maggots nesting in my skin. I am Inaavinuise.
The walk to the waterhole made me very, very tired. Even after I rest, I don’t have the strength to look for food. I will do that tomorrow. I will sleep today.
FOUND
The sun is high in the sky when I wake. It beats down through the branches of the trees. Its heat burns through my sores. I should get up and look for food. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything in my belly that I don’t feel hunger. But I know I have to eat. I try to stand up. All I can do is sit. I open the jar the snake hunter gave me. I take a long drink and lie back down. I’ll look for food later. When it’s cooler.
It’s still hot when I wake again. I want to go back to sleep. But I’m afraid if I don’t get up now, I’ll never get up again. I sit. I have to rest before I try to stand. I leave my water pouches under the trees. They’re too heavy to carry. The jar that’s tied around my neck has enough water for today.
I walk slowly, leaning on the broken branch. It’s been many days since I walked far in the veld. The earth is very, very dry. Once again, the veld has more death than life. The bodies of Herero who escaped from the desert lie next to the bones of those who never made it that far. I stop when I see a leopard eating what’s left of a cow. My heart beats quickly. I can’t run faster than a leopard. I can’t run at all. And there’s no place to hide. The leopard looks at me. He yawns and goes back to his meal.
I walk on, shaking my head. Even the leopards look at me and say, “What do we need with these bones? We have real food to eat.”
At last, I find some berry bushes. I pick the few dry berries that still hang on their branches. They’re not enough. I walk a little farther, searching the ground for roots or uintjes. I hear a strange noise. I look up and see dust clouds rolling toward me. It’s a Cape wagon. It’s very close. It’s too late to run or hide. I drop to the ground, hoping no one will see me. But there’s no grass to hide in. The wagon stops close to me. A white man jumps down. He walks over and looks at me. He says something. But I don’t know his words. He speaks white people talk. He bends down. I back away, hoping my sores will protect me. I don’t want him lying on me.
The man smiles and holds his hand out to me. “Mevanga oku kuvatera,” he says. His voice is soft and kind as he offers to help me. So are his blue eyes.
I’m scared. I don’t want him to touch me. But I can’t run away. I look at him closely. Maybe he will help me. Or maybe he’ll send me to the death camps. I don’t know. I do know I’ll die in the veld if I don’t take his help. I don’t want to die. I want to live. For Mama and Tate. For the tjikuus by the fire. For the ancestors. For all the Herero who have died.
I decide to believe him. I put my hand in his.
Kov
ON THE MARCH
It’s still twilight when we leave the fort. The home guards, mounted on shaggy horses, ride out first, their long guns at the ready in leather pouches near their right legs. They’re led by Hugo von Francois and Otto Eggers, longtime settlers who have served in the Schutztruppe. Recognizing Francois’ name from Göring’s and Epenstein’s stories, I size up the Prussian captain riding through the shadows to the head of the cavalry. A settler now, he rides with the authority of a man who lets nothing get in his way.
Following the home guard are the officers of the Seebatallion, all riding sturdy horses. The wagons, artillery, and troops fall in behind, forming a train that stretches toward the horizon. Each wagon with its long team of oxen measures at least 50 meters. Black drivers run alongside the oxen calling to them by name and cracking the enormous whips they hold in both hands.
“Wörk! Wörk, Osse!” they call out. A division of marines marches behind each wagon, their guns slung over their shoulders, their waists cinched with heavy cartridge belts.
While a few of the surgeons are mounted, the rest of us ride in the hospital wagons, supposedly because it’s safer. It’s true that I’m less likely to get hit by a bullet, but I’m not convinced it’s such a safe way to travel over the rutted trails. As the heavy wheels grind into the shifting sand, the wagon tilts and groans. Then a wheel climbs up over a rock jutting out of the well-worn ruts. Everything lurches with the imbalance, and I brace myself to keep from tumbling into the chest of supplies.
We’re forced to stop occasionally when a wagon wheel slips the rut and sinks too far into soft sand, a harness gets tangled, or an ox collapses in the heat and has to be removed from the team. I welcome the unexpected respite from the constant shifting of the wagon and its stifling confines. As I stretch my legs, I take in the hilly countryside. The deeply carved wagon tracks scarring the sand. Sharp brambles breaking up the patches of tall coarse grass that try to reclaim the trail the wagons have forged. The large birds circling overhead. But after a few minutes in that unbearable sun, I’m more than happy to climb back under the shade of the wagon. I’m amazed that the men are holding up in this heat. But if we don’t take a break soon, I fear we’ll have some patients to look after.
A few hours later, as the sun reaches its zenith, we come to a shady area that, from the looks of it, had been a prosperous German farm. Now Kapps Farm is a ruin. The once stately brick house has gaping holes where its windows and doors should hang. Its yard is littered with broken furniture, smashed dishes, and scraps of clothing. Dozens of torn, soiled books are strewn about. Some of the men rummage through the debris, trying to make sense of the chaos. Karl picks up what’s left of a porcelain doll; its face is a mosaic of flesh-colored shards. Seeing no sign of a grave, I hope the young owner of the doll didn’t meet a similar fate.
We eat a somber meal of boiled rice and fill our water casks before stretching out in the shade of the wagons. Several men keep guard, while the rest of us, exhausted by the heat, doze off.
Long before we’re ready to hit the trail again, we’re given orders to fall in line. At least it’s a bit cooler now that the sun is slipping behind us to the western horizon. We push on, the monotony broken only by the cries of a strange bird or the sighting of an antelope.
At last, we come to Owikango where we’re told to make camp. Even though it has a name, there’s no station here – just a clearing and some meager waterholes. Using the scraggly brush for fuel, the men light campfires throughout the clearing, both for light and warmth. As soon as the sun dips below the horizon, the high veld turns from an oven to an icebox. After warming myself by a fire, I help set up the tent flaps on the hospital wagon. A few of the marines put up the tents for the other officers. Since we’re in enemy territory, we form a wagenburg – the supply wagons are drawn up in a large square around the campsite to serve as a makeshift fortification that partially blocks the firelight from hostile eyes and keeps us from b
eing easy targets or prey for wild animals. Fifty meters out, sentry posts are erected at each of the four corners. Constructed of brush, each post houses four men who take turns scanning the darkness for signs of the enemy.
After tending to some of the men who suffered minor injuries on the long hot march, I turn in, pulling my woolen blanket tightly around me. But sleep is slow in coming as every strange noise rifles my imagination. The low, soft cry of a distant animal grows louder. Is it a lion drawn by the smell of our food? Or perhaps it’s not an animal at all, I think, as I hear a jerky, coarse howl respond. It could be the Herero, signaling to each other as they lie in ambush. Feeling a bit foolish, I pull my loaded gun within easy reach. The cold hard metal fills me with confidence, and I finally drift off to sleep.
I’m awakened by a rapid volley of gunshots. Still in the stupor of sleep, I think they’re close by. I lie momentarily paralyzed, both by the cold and fear. I hear more shots and realize they’re coming from outside the camp. I grab my gun and hurry out of the tent. The whole camp is a wave of shadows, surging toward the wall of wagons. I hear curses as some of the men stumble in the darkness.
My curiosity drives me forward, but a hand reaches out to restrain me. It’s Lieutenant Eggers. “Your services may be needed here, Doctor,” he whispers urgently.
I nod and head to the field hospital to prepare for the worst. By lantern light, the other surgeons and I set up the operating table and gather the tools we may need for surgery. Then we wait. The gunfire stops, and an uneasy silence settles over the clearing.
I join some of the officers who are drinking coffee around a small campfire. Eggers smiles wearily when he sees me. “No news yet,” he says as he hands me a cup of the bitter brew.
“Three sentries are unaccounted for at Post Three,” Captain von Francois says. “We’ve sent scouts out, but we won’t know anything until dawn.”
The darkness is already giving way to gray so there’s no point in trying to sleep again. I huddle close to the fire, waiting quietly with the others for the scouts to return. For a moment, the camp looks like a tableau – the old settlers, in their high boots and shirt sleeves, lounging about their campfires; the marines, wrapped in their blankets, holding their hands out to the warmth of the flames; the Boers, keeping their own counsel near the wagons; the black drivers, squatting in a corner, joking and laughing.
The scene comes to life as the sky lightens and a medley of exotic birdsong spreads across the veld, welcoming the newborn day. Rays of pink fan out from the east, announcing the sun’s return. I look in awe at the stark beauty, trying to absorb the moment, to etch it into my memory. It’s a reminder that nature is a force unto itself, oblivious to our struggles.
The mood is broken as the men assigned to the next watch stand up and stretch. They reach for their guns and apprehensively leave the relative security of the wagon walls. A few minutes later, the guards who have stood watch all night return. They look tired and relieved.
Suddenly, a cry rises from near the perimeter. A group of black men are riding toward the camp. As they get closer, I see the white kerchiefs tied around their broad-brimmed hats. Witboois. They must be our scouts. The lead man dismounts, revealing a body draped over the back of his horse. It’s one of our marines. When the other Witboois dismount, I see two more bodies. I quickly join the other men pressing around them.
“They’ve been murdered!” A pale-faced recruit shrieks as the scouts lower the bodies to the ground.
I push my way through the growing crowd. The marines lie on the hard earth, their khaki uniforms darkened with blood, their mouths gaping open, their eyes staring sightlessly at the sun.
“Those are the sentries from Post Three,” Eggers confirms as he steps up behind me.
I force myself to look closely at the fallen men. I had tended to two of them on the ship. The other one is Heston, who had been in the gondola next to mine on the train. Even though it’s obvious they’re dead, I kneel down and check their pulse. I shake my head as I close their eyes. The rest of the men stand silently until the lieutenant motions for a few of them to help Arnold take the bodies to the hospital wagon. I follow along behind. I’ve seen death before but never at the hands of another man.
The other surgeons and I begin the somber task of preparing the bodies for burial. With water in such short supply, we can’t waste it cleaning the dead men, but we examine their wounds and search their pockets for personal belongings that we can send back to their families. I pull a blood-stained letter and a photograph of a young girl from the pocket of the man I’m examining and set them aside. Using as little water as possible, I wash my hands.
Francois strolls over with a few of the other officers. “Well?” he asks us.
“They were shot, sir,” the senior surgeon reports. “One was clean through the heart. The other two took a number of bullets.”
“Any mutilation?”
“No, sir. Just the bullet wounds.”
The captain turns to the other officers. “The scouts found no sign of the enemy around the camp,” he says quietly.
“Is it possible they were shot by our own men, sir?” Eggers asks.
“Could be. These are young recruits, and it was their first night in a war zone. Someone probably heard something and panicked. And then,” he shrugs, “well, you heard all the shooting.”
“What should we tell the men?” another officer asks.
“The truth. The Herero killed these men in cold blood,” Francois says. He stomps off.
Late in the afternoon, we gather somberly on a hillside just outside the camp to pay our final respects. The three bodies, wrapped in their white blankets, are laid in a freshly dug communal grave. Some of the men stack stones on top of the grave as protection against wild animals while Francois says the Lord’s Prayer. A few friends of the dead men put up rough wooden crosses crudely etched with their names and the date of their deaths. I linger behind, saying my own prayers and laying a stone on the grave. I didn’t know these men well, but our shared journey had forged a bond. I stoop down to pick up some sand to scrub the touch of death from my hands.
A somber sobriety hangs over the camp the rest of the day. I don’t feel like talking much this evening, so I retire to the hospital wagon soon after dinner. As I straighten my supplies, I see the letter I had pulled from the dead man’s pocket. I carefully unfold it and hold it up to the lantern light. “My dearest Anneliese,” I read. “I know I promised I would return to you, but God has willed otherwise. While I cannot be at your side, know that my love for you is undying. May it comfort you in your grief.
“Do not mourn for what could have been, my love, but treasure the moments we have shared. Wipe the tears from your beautiful eyes, and smile for me. When we meet again, we will walk the golden streets of Heaven hand in hand.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I can read no more. I refold the bloodied letter and set it aside with Anneliese’s picture. I should write my own letters to Hanna, David, and Papa – just in case. I get out my writing paper and pen. “My beloved Hanna,” I begin, but then I struggle to find the words I want to say. Finally, I put pen to paper and just begin to write:
“We buried our first casualties today – three young men who had their whole lives ahead of them. I barely knew them, so I don’t know what dreams died with them. The tragedy is that their deaths were needless. They didn’t die as heroes in the heat of battle; we have yet to meet the enemy. Instead, their lives were snuffed out by their comrades, who panicked in the strangeness of this land.
“As I prepared the bodies for burial, I fully understood, for the first time, the reality of what we are doing here. It is one thing to talk about fighting wars and serving the Fatherland when surrounded by family back home. But the doing of it, I’m afraid, may test us all in ways no man should be tested.
“Come what may, I want you to know how much your love sustains me. You are my breath, my life, my past, my future. Without you, I am not. Whether I die in this
desert or in your arms at home, you will be my final thought.”
Four days later, the sentries let up a cry early in the morning. More troops are coming. I want to climb up on the wagons with the rest of the men to watch the long procession winding toward us, but as a surgeon, I’m expected to show the same restraint as the other officers. I let Arnold do the looking for me.
“It’s Major von Glasenapp!” he calls down from his perch on a nearby wagon.
After the new arrivals, including a few more surgeons and orderlies, have rested, the major summons the camp to prepare us for what lies ahead. We are to move to the north around the enemy. It will mean forced marches with fewer and lighter wagons. The campaign will be difficult, the major says, as we’ll have smaller rations and limited supplies. Water will be scarce, and what water we find must be boiled before it’s used. There will be no water for washing our hands, our clothes, or our eating utensils.
Geier, one of the other surgeons, raises an eyebrow. “I hope that order doesn’t apply to us. If we have to do surgery, we have to wash our hands and instruments,” he says.
“We’ll make do,” Velten, a doctor from the Habicht crew who has joined our unit, says sternly. “When water is scarce, we’ll use sand. There’s plenty of that.”
We head out the next morning, about three hundred of us. Again, the old Africans of the home guard lead, followed by our mounted officers. The marines, a few hospital wagons, and several Cape wagons, loaded with light artillery, trail out into a long thin line. Glad to be moving again, the men sing out as they march down the narrow track hedged by the tall, dense brambles with their curved, finger-length thorns.
The singing and early morning jocularity fade as the sun rises in the cloudless sky, beating harshly on man, animal, and sand alike. Fortunately, we have water – for this morning, at least. Even though my eyes and throat are already burning in the heat and dryness, I stretch my water supply, taking small sips only when I have to. I’ve learned that promised waterholes are often dry or soured.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 24
