As the sun reaches its zenith, we stop in a clearing to rest and replenish our water from a nearby river, the Epukiro omuramba. But even though we’re in the rainy season, what water had been there has evaporated or soaked into the thirsty earth. One of the old settlers shows us how, and where, to dig holes in search of a trickle of water. I’m elated when a little moisture bubbles up in my hole, until I see it’s milky with lime. We make do with what we find, boiling out the impurities. After a short rest, we continue our march deep into the cold night.
And so it is, day after day, week after week, the tortuous monotony of our life as we trek through this inhospitable land. Time loses its relevance. Yes, the sun rises and sets each day, but yesterday, today, and tomorrow blur into one as we continue to march in silence under the merciless sun. I see too many men, their eyes glazed, their minds delirious, in need of good water and nutrition. But there’s little I can do. The worst cases are allowed to ride in the hospital wagons until they have strength enough to walk again or they’re buried in the brambles.
Occasionally, we get a lull when a scouting party brings in fresh game or, more often, an exhausted ox falls. While it’s a grim reminder of the difficulties of our journey, it also means we’ll have a little meat with our “soup” that night. Lately, we’ve had a lot more beef than we had in the first days of our march. It’s tough and stringy, but it provides more nourishment than our usual fare of half-cooked rice or plinsen.
My hospital wagon is cramped with weakened men, so I walk or share the driver’s narrow perch. Since the Boer who drives the wagon speaks only Afrikaans, my mind wanders freely as we move along. Looking out over the line of weary men and wagons, I think of my ancestors wandering with Moses in the wilderness. For the first time, I understand their discouragement. But at least they had their families with them, I think ruefully.
Late that night, I share some “meat bouillon” with Geier. With the growing number of injured and sick to attend to, I’ve had little time to get to know him. But tonight, exhausted as we are, neither of us is ready for sleep. Feeling the night chill, I pull my blanket around me and move closer to the small fire. I stare into the flames, looking for meaning in the stories of my ancestors as I try to stave off my constant worries about Papa, Hanna, and David.
“Can you imagine forty years of this?” Geier muses.
I look at him questioningly.
“The Israelites wandering in the wilderness,” he says. He puts another stick of wood on the fire, watching the sparks dance skyward.
“I was just thinking about that this afternoon,” I said. “Of course, God provided for them.”
“And He’s providing for us.” Geier takes a slow sip of the awful stuff we pretend is coffee. “Just like He used that wilderness experience to teach and instruct the Israelites, He will use this time to build the character of our German troops and to purge our colony of the undesirable races.”
He leans forward. In the glow of the firelight, I can see the fierce passion in his eyes.
“The way I see it, this is South West Africa’s purgatory, and God is testing us, just as he tested the tribe of Judah, to see if we have what it takes to claim this land. Of course, the Israelites ultimately failed that test. And ever since, they have been condemned to wander the earth, unable to call any land home.”
Sharp retorts flood my mind, but I bite my tongue. It would do little good to argue with Geier – or point out the errors of his “facts.”
He continues, “If we come through these trials, God will bless the Fatherland, and Germany will claim its rightful place in history among all the great empires.”
In the following days, I’m often reminded of Geier’s thoughts about this being a form of purgatory as more men fall to sickness and fatigue. Those who can still march are mere specters of the jovial crew I met on the ship. Our uniforms, the same ones we wore when we began this trek, hang loosely in dirty tatters about our gaunt frames. Our weathered faces are covered in scruffy beards. But despite the exhaustion, the lack of water, and the dearth of real food, no one complains. We have our orders. So we march. In silence.
REMNANTS OF LIFE
The wagons creak to a halt, and the troops fall out of line. It’s too early for the midday break. Perhaps they’ve found a good supply of water, I hope. But the word comes slowly back. An abandoned wagon is blocking the trail. Some of the men must clear a path around it so we can move on.
Arnold and I walk up to the deserted wagon – the first sign of humanity we’ve seen since we began this trek weeks ago. It sits askew on the trail, its canvas cover in shreds. Books and letters are strewn about, but nothing else of value remains. Lieutenant Eggers is sifting through the debris with Karl and a few other men, looking for anything that could prove useful. They pick up some of the books and letters.
“Watch your step!” the lieutenant calls as I start to move toward him.
I look down in time to avoid stepping on a human skull. Eggers picks his way over to where I’m standing, carefully avoiding the trail of gnawed human bones. “Any idea what happened?” I ask.
“Looks like a farmer, or perhaps a trader, trying to escape. Probably had a herd of cattle. See how it’s trampled over there?” he points to the ground at the side of the wagon. “This is as far as he got. The wild beasts took care of whatever the Herero left.”
The lieutenant motions to Arnold and Karl to gather up the bones. The other men dig a shallow grave and tie a couple of sticks together into a makeshift cross. Karl pulls some brambles over the grave to protect the bones from further desecration.
“Where do you think he came from?” Arnold asks. “We haven’t seen a house for weeks.”
Karl, obviously exhausted by the extra work, shrugs indifferently. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”
Late the next day, we’re going up a hill when our march is interrupted by a sharp shout. Despite the men’s physical weakness, their survival instincts kick in. Instantly on the alert, the troops in front of my wagon reach for their guns. I make sure my pistol is readily at hand, even though I know it won’t be much use against rifles. Still, I feel safer knowing I’m armed.
One of the home guards rides back to explain what’s happening. He points into the bush. “A Herero village,” he says quietly. “See the fire?”
Peering through the bush, I watch as some of the marines cautiously enter a handful of domed huts. Made of branches and twigs plastered with cow dung, the huts blend in with the bush, especially in the twilight. It takes a sharp eye to spot them. Near one of the huts, a small fire burns. An elderly Herero man and his wife, who are too feeble to flee, sit beside the fire. Two officers stand guard over the couple while the marines continue to search the other huts.
The home guard nods toward the fire. “That’s their ‘holy’ fire,” he says derisively. “They think it’s where their ancestors live.”
The troops finish searching the huts. “These are the only two,” a marine reports to the officers guarding the couple.
“Güt!” one of them barks. He takes a smoking branch from the fire and ignites the couple’s house. Following his cue, the marines use the fire to light other branches to torch the rest of the village.
“Your ancestors aren’t happy with you,” the officer mocks the old man and woman. “See what they have done to your village.” He raises his revolver and shoots the woman, point blank, in the head. Her body slumps against her husband, who sits passively on the ground.
“My turn,” the other officer says as he shoots the husband. The officers nonchalantly wipe the blood and brains from their guns.
As they start to rejoin the line, one of them turns back. “I want to check something out,” he calls to his comrade. Using his bayonet, he lifts the loin cloth from the man’s body. He laughs and points at the man’s circumcision. “It’s just like Hugo said. They’re black Jews!”
Knowing that some of the men are watching me for a reaction, I keep my face blank, as if I hadn’t he
ard the vulgar comment. Inside, I’m seething. But I remind myself that these are the attitudes I’m trying to change through my service to the Fatherland. Someday, the hatred will end.
We march on, leaving the stripped bodies for the wild beasts. As I ride along, the scene plays over and over in my mind. I try to justify the shootings, but I can find no excuses to cover such brutality – other than the misery of our never-ending march. Is this really how modern civilized people conduct war?
At camp that night, Geier has nothing but praise for the officers.
I try to keep my face expressionless as I add another branch to the fire. I guess I’m not good at being passive.
“It bothers you?” Geier asks, apparently reading my face. “I would think you of all people would understand the need to purge this land of its inferior races. After all, the Israelites exterminated all the natives when they claimed Israel.”
“That was different,” I say lamely.
“How?” he demands.
“First, it was thousands of years ago. And had they not done it, those people would have killed them. And, besides, God ordered it.”
“My point exactly!” Geier says. “If we don’t wipe them out, they’ll continue to rise up against us. And it’s by divine right that we’re ridding South West Africa of these half-humans. As the superior race, we have a duty to conquer this land and people it with hardy German stock.”
The conversation ends when Velten comes over with news that the enemy is nearby. We’re sure to see action tomorrow or the next day, so we had best get ready. Morale picks up throughout the camp. The sooner we put down this rebellion the sooner we can return to the comforts of home. The men clean their guns and fill their cartridge belts. I help prepare our medical supplies.
Morning dawns to a thunderous sky that rips open, flooding the dry riverbed and making the wagon trail all but impassable. Regardless, the order comes to march. So we pack up our waterlogged gear and fall in line. While the respite from the summer heat is welcome, the struggle to keep the heavy wagons and artillery from being mired in the wet sand or carried away by the violent rush of a flash flood is overwhelming. The officers push us along, saying we must get to higher ground or everything could be swept away. With so few provisions left, we can’t afford to lose anything. And we can’t risk the enemy getting any of our big guns.
So on we trudge, battling the elements rather than the Herero – the next day, and the day after, and the days after. It’s always the same. More oxen falling. More sick men. More wasteland to cross. If this is purgatory, we should all be purified by now.
* * * * *
I’m tending to some of my patients when Sergeant Hansen strolls over. One of the home guard, Hansen is a big man who seems made for wilderness life. If he were given to violence, I could imagine him taking on a Herero or two with his bare hands.
“Doctor, would you have any balm to spare?” he asks in rough low Deutsch. “One of my men cut his hands badly on the brambles.”
I nod sympathetically. I’m seeing a lot of men with inflamed hands. The bramble thorns are razor sharp, but the biggest problem is not having water to clean the cuts. “Here you are,” I give Hansen a small tin of salve. “I’ll come over later to see if there’s anything else I can do.”
Hansen smiles his appreciation.
After tending to all the men and eating a bit of poorly cooked rice, I head over to Hansen’s tent where all the old Africans gather.
“Doctor!” Hansen greets me. “You look exhausted. Sit down.” He moves over, making room for me at the fire. The smell of their food is tantalizing. Used to living off the land, the old settlers always seem to eat better than the rest of us, who rely mostly on military rations. Hansen offers me a pancake and a piece of wild game. I know the meat may not be kosher, but at this point I don’t care.
After I’ve eaten, Hansen introduces me to Friedrich, the injured man. I examine his hands in the firelight. The cuts are deep and oozing with pus. He winces when I gently probe one of the wounds. “You’ve already used the salve?” I ask.
He nods.
“Good. Since we can’t keep your hands clean, we need to wrap them.” I pull out some cloth strips and deftly bandage Friedrich’s hands, giving him what’s left of the bandages. “You should change the wrappings at least once a day, but twice would be better. Put more salve on each time. If you need more, come see me.”
“Thank you,” Friedrich says quietly.
I stay awhile, listening to the old settlers telling about their first years in the colony and all the challenges they endured. Most of their stories are about hunting – lions, rhinos, leopards, even a man-eating crocodile. They also tell of all the native wars and the rinderpest epidemic that wiped out most of the cattle. I look at them with renewed respect. Most of the people I know couldn’t have survived such hardships.
When I check on Friedrich the next day, the old Africans are deep in discussion about the cause of the Herero uprising. Curious about their opinions, I listen attentively. “What did we expect?” Daniel, one of the older men, says. “The Herero were farmers with large landholdings. Then we come in to take away their land and their cattle. We force them to work for us. They’re a proud race. Of course, they’d rise up in revolt. They’re struggling for independence as much as the North Germans were in 1813.”
“But how can you justify their cruelty?” Friedrich’s brother Gerd asks.
“What cruelty? They spared the women and children, escorting them safely to Windhük,” Daniel replies.
“What are you talking about?” I ask incredulously. “The newspapers back home were filled with stories about how they were murdering children and then slaughtering their mothers.”
“You believe everything you read? I thought you’d be smarter than that, Doctor. It was all lies. Just a way to sell papers and get the Kaiser and the Reichstag to send troops,” Daniel says. “Samuel Maharero, their chief, ordered his men not to harm the missionaries or women and children. We’re the ones raping young Herero girls and killing babies and old people. And we’re supposed to be the civilized race.” Daniel draws on his pipe.
Eggers starts to take offense, but the old man hushes him. “How quickly you forget, Otto. What about that old couple we killed the other day? And remember what happened to the young Herero mother who owed Trader Schuster money? She was publicly flogged with the sjambok – on her bare stomach and between her legs. The beating didn’t stop until she was dead. And all the good German citizens watched. Not even the missionaries protested.”
“The missionaries.” Another man spits. “They’re the cause of all this. They came here telling the natives they were our brothers.”
“Yes,” Daniel continues. “And then we came, and the traders, and the soldiers. And we said, ‘You’re not our brothers. You’re not even our equals. You should feel privileged to be our slaves.’”
“They’re not fit to be our brothers. At least, not yet,” Francois pipes up. “It’s our duty to teach them, to discipline them with a firm, strict hand. With our instruction, they may be ready to become our brothers in a century or two, after they learn what we’ve already discovered – to dig wells, cultivate crops, build proper houses, and live in peace with their neighbors. We can’t treat them as equals until they’ve learned to be our equal.”
“Listen to yourself.” Daniel slaps his knee. “Dig wells? They’ve been digging waterholes in this arid land for centuries. If it weren’t for their knowledge, we would never have survived here. And they’re building houses, brick ones just like ours. Many of them have become Christians, gone to missionary schools, put out their holy fires, and turned away from ancestor worship. Some of them can read and write in more languages than most Germans. If you ask me, you’re just looking for an excuse to justify your actions.
“And this revolt – I think we asked for it,” he continues. “We determine the value of a man’s worth by the color of his skin, not by his mind or his heart. Even the courts h
ere place the most base German above the noblest of Herero – after we promised them justice and protection in the treaties we signed.”
“If that’s how you feel, why are you fighting this war?” Francois asks Daniel.
The old man shrugs his shoulders. “I want this to end quickly so we can return to a peaceful co-existence.”
“You’re a fool if you think that’s possible,” Francois says. “The Herero can’t be trusted. Just look at Samuel Maharero. He’s an ungrateful, greedy, treacherous upstart. Why, he wouldn’t be chief today if it weren’t for German support.”
Daniel starts to interrupt him, but Francois ignores him. “I should know. I’m the one who told Samuel the Imperial German government was recognizing him as paramount chief, even though by Herero tradition, he didn’t have a claim to his father’s inheritance. We made him a powerful, wealthy man. And look at how he repays us.”
“You Germans may be good at soldiering and farming, but you know nothing about running a colony,” one of the older freight-carriers chimes in, mixing his English and Deutsch.
Francois shakes his head in disgust. “Things were a lot better when my brother and I were in control. But then they sent in the administrators. Look where Governor Leutwein’s diplomacy has gotten us. It was his idea to support Samuel.”
The old freight-carrier stretches. “The best thing for Germany would be to sell this colony to the English. They know how to manage colonies.”
“That will never happen,” Friedrich says wearily. “Even if 2,000 German graves have to be dug here, the Kaiser will not give up South West Africa. Germany must have its empire.”
“You may be digging those graves this year,” the old freight-carrier warns.
MOUNTING LOSSES
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 25
