Tip & Run

by Edward Paice

  Somewhat surprisingly, in view of the hardships of carrier service, ‘black’ humour was also every bit as evident in the field as in the trenches in Europe. When Korombo, a farm worker, returned to Nanyuki after nearly two years in the Carrier Corps he declared to his employer that the food had been ‘abominable’ and the work ‘heart-breaking’; but one of his most abiding memories was of the occasion when Belgian askari had set eyes on his substantial frame and shouted ‘nyama! Food!’. Korombo had, he said, not felt ‘very nice when troops of this kind were quartered nearby’ and assured anyone who doubted his tale that ‘those jackals were hungry, I tell you’.28 Those who could laugh at their experiences or who gained something from their period of service must, however, have been a very small minority. For the majority the advent in eastern Africa of ‘total war’ brought misery on a scale that was unimaginable for all but the most beleaguered civilians in Europe.

  PART FOUR

  1917

  ‘My average rate of retreat has been 15 miles a day, and we hope to exceed that shortly. I have been on the verge of collapse, but a bottle or two of Hock in the evening and then I see things through Hock coloured spectacles . . . when the war is over we shall institute an annual marathon from Kilimanjaro to Mt Kenia, and I bet we beat all-comers every time.’

  ‘Interview’ with ‘von Lettow Fallback’,

  The Leader, 21 April 1917

  TWENTY-SIX

  Unfinished Business

  The convening of the Imperial War Conference in London in early 1917 could not have come at a better time for Botha and Smuts. The political situation in South Africa was as tense as at any time since the start of the war: another Boer rebellion was thwarted during 1916, and it was generally believed that South Africa’s involvement in the war had become unpopular with a majority of even the moderates among the Afrikaans-speaking population. In December De Volkstem captured the prevailing mood when it stated that ‘the development of the situation in German East must necessarily become a question of guerrilla fighting in the woods for which a man of the calibre of General Smuts is not required’, and urging that ‘the sooner he returns the more welcome he will be’.1 As criticism of Botha’s loyalty to the British Empire mounted, his dilemma had become acute: if Smuts returned home leaving the East Africa campaign unfinished his return would smack of defeat and the reputations (and ambitions) of both men would suffer at home and abroad. The Imperial War Conference was therefore a ‘heaven-sent opportunity’,2 enabling Botha to send Smuts to London as South Africa’s representative (thereby creating the impression that his departure from East Africa was forced by the need to attend to even weightier imperial matters than the campaign against von Lettow-Vorbeck), while Botha dealt with the domestic strife at home.

  In order to safeguard his reputation, and bolster morale in South Africa, Smuts – ever the slim (cunning) politician – marked his withdrawal from the fray with a declaration of victory in East Africa. It was certainly the case that his decisive leadership in the field, and his willingness to take risks, had wrested more than one million square miles of German territory from the Kaiser; and that this territorial gain was sufficiently secure to enable Walter Long, the British Colonial Secretary, to declare that German East Africa, Ruanda and Urundi would never now be returned to Germany. But von Lettow-Vorbeck and Schnee remained undefeated in the field, and when the arrival of the rains led to some of the most desperate fighting of the war, particularly on the Rufiji front, it became abundantly obvious that they were no more likely to surrender than they had been when invited to do so in September 1916. Military, as opposed to political, victory remained as elusive as ever.

  Smuts was fulsome in his praise of his troops, declaring himself ‘eternally proud’ of them and publicly stating that ‘in the story of human endurance the campaign deserves a very special place, and the heroes who went through it uncomplainingly, doggedly, are entitled to all recognition and reverence’.3 But his words did not silence his critics and for every soldier – South African, British or Indian – who regarded Smuts as ‘the catalyst’ who ensured that ‘the muddied waters crystallised into some sort of war purpose’4 there was one who lambasted his reliance on wide turning movements for being a strategy that was bound to fail in the open spaces of German East Africa; and for every admirer of his ‘natural simplicity’ and ‘ruthless determination’, which many considered to be a refreshing and ‘striking contrast with the mannerisms of the British regular officer’,5 there were those who considered him to have been outrageously autocratic. ‘He would stand no opposition’, ‘he would have his own way absolutely and in detail’, ‘all opposition to him was a personal affront’, ‘he did not understand teamwork’,6 were common enough opinions among Staff officers who had found themselves serving under ‘Oom Jannie’; and many of the disease-ridden, exhausted South African troopers were quick to voice their disgust at what they perceived as the unnecessary hardships they had been forced to endure. Stories of mutinous behaviour soon began to circulate in the South African press, and the allegations levelled at Smuts by Colonel Kirkpatrick, the commanding officer of 9/SAI, were of sufficient gravity to merit the convening of an official Court of Enquiry.*

  Smuts’s rebuttal of what he called the ‘grumblings of a few thoughtless or malcontent mischief-makers’ was forthright. His view was that ‘under the extraordinary difficulties with which I was confronted in this campaign, I had the choice of either doing nothing or doing the job as it has been done’; and that ‘even Moses himself in the desert had not such a commissariat situation as faced me’.7 There was a good deal of truth in both statements, but with anti-British propaganda increasingly rife in a South Africa in which the cost of living had risen dramatically on account of its involvement in the war, Smuts’s prickliness did little to endear him to the public. That the Hertzogites should seize on every opportunity to attack him was no surprise; but soon the outcry spread to supporters of the predominantly British-speaking members of the Labour Party, many of whom had served in the infantry battalions sent to East Africa and were unable to find work when they returned home.

  The atmosphere of unease was not confined to the white population. Just as the war had led to increasing repression in British East Africa (where a War Council comprising three officials, two settlers and the general manager of the Standard Bank had ruled by diktat since the introduction of conscription in late 1915 and led to a considerable strengthening of the political and economic power enjoyed by the white settler population), so too did the outlook for South Africa’s three and a half million non-whites worsen with each year that failed to witness an end to the conflict. By the end of the war the ranks of white miners in the gold mines of the Rand would have swelled to such an extent that they accounted for more than half the workforce, and their increasing political power secured more and more preferential terms of employment to those of their black counterparts; while in the countryside the decision of African political activists to suspend for the duration of the war their opposition to the 1913 Land Act – which sought to prohibit Africans from owning land outside designated reserves which encompassed only a tenth of the country – began to look like a gesture that was unlikely to be rewarded. Racial paranoia and the white population’s desire to impose greater segregation dominated South African politics, and although black leaders voiced their objections with a degree of sophistication and persistence that would not be matched in East and Central Africa for decades to come, their efforts were in vain. In March 1917, Botha publicly praised South Africa’s ‘natives’ and other ‘non-whites’ for their loyalty; but by then it was clear that the likelihood of their leaders ensuring ‘fair play’ had been severely compromised by the intensification of South Africa’s war effort.

  Despite Botha’s praise for the loyalty of South Africa’s indigenous population, he would not countenance its participation in anything other than a non-combatant capacity. Boer and Briton alike considered the involvement of more than 100,000 Africans in
the Anglo-South African War to have been an embarrassing (and potentially dangerous) expedient that should not be repeated at any cost. Indian bearer companies and 20,000 African labourers were sent to the East African campaign, and Native Labour Contingents served in German South-West Africa and France. But so great were the fears of the potential consequences of arming Africans that Smuts publicly censured Germany’s rumoured intention to mobilise ‘vast native armies . . . in the next great war’;* and the only non-white South Africans allowed to bear arms were the ‘coloureds’ of the Cape Corps. Even in their case only one tenth of the 80,000 or so volunteers were actually put into the field.

  Expressions of loyalty to the British Empire among Africans, ‘coloureds’ and Indians were almost universal, not least because of the enduring belief that in Whitehall lay the only hope of blocking the Land Act and other discriminatory legislation, and as a result the ban on ‘natives’ participating in combat roles was extremely unpopular. ‘Fancy refusing native assistance . . . on the ground of colour,’8 wrote the South African National Native Council’s Solomon Plaatje; ‘it would seem that the South African government is so deeply in love with the natives that they are scrupulously careful lest the natives should singe so much as a hair in the present struggle, and that white men alone may shoot and kill one another.’9 The irony of South African racial policy did not escape Plaatje. While Botha and Smuts would not allow ‘the militarization of the natives’ in South Africa, as early as April 1916 Smuts had pressed for the expansion of the King’s African Rifles; and by the end of the year he had been dependent on the arrival of substantial numbers of troops from West Africa in order to withdraw white South Africans from the fray.*

  Smuts’s policy smacked of hypocrisy: East and West Africans were allowed to distinguish themselves, and win awards, in the field – but black South Africans were not. The explanation for this seeming anomaly, as Plaatje well knew, was simple. Contributing to the war effort could potentially be regarded as deserving of reward, and a cursory glance at what was happening in India was enough to show Botha and Smuts that times were changing. By the end of the Great War more than 1.4 million Indians had served in the armed forces, a majority of them as combatants; and the Punjab alone, whose Pathan and Baluch battalions fought in East Africa, contributed more than a third of the one million Indian troops who were sent overseas. This was a colossal contribution, matched by an equally huge bestowal of supplies, livestock, and cash; and it was a significant factor, amid increasing unrest and a marked rise in politicisation in India, in deciding Lord Montagu, the Secretary of State for India, to announce in 1917 a ‘gradual development of self-governing institutions with a view to the progressive realisation of responsible government’ in India.

  The reforms did not constitute a major weakening of Britain’s power in India, but they were quite sufficient to alarm white South Africans; and that alarm would soon increase exponentially when rumours began to circulate of a further reward for India: German East Africa. The message to Botha, and all white South Africans, was clear: securing the future of a white-dominated South Africa, and the lion’s share of any reward for the many tens of millions of pounds that the war was costing their country, was dependent on ensuring that the indigenous population were excluded from contributing in any combatant capacity. Given the determination to achieve this outcome, it is unsurprising that the fact that almost as many black South African labourers died in the East Africa campaign (1,188 men) as white South African troops (1,599 men) was not widely publicised.

  ‘Smuts’s War’ may have proved immensely unpopular in South Africa, but in Britain he was received as a hero of the highest order. Prime Minister Lloyd George guffed his appreciation of ‘one of the most brilliant generals in this war’; Churchill called him ‘an altogether extraordinary man’; and Andrew Bonar Law, leader of the Conservative Party, praised the fact that two South African politicians had been responsible for ‘two of the most notable achievements [of the war] so far’10 in conquering German South-West and German East Africa. The esteem in which Smuts was held was so universal – at a time of numerous crises for Britain’s war effort in Europe – that it was even suggested that he should be given command of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force in Palestine. Smuts did not take to the field again, but was persuaded to stay in Britain after the Imperial War Conference and spent the rest of the war working hand in glove with Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig and Lord Milner – the creation of the Royal Air Force being just one among a plethora of projects with which he was intimately involved. Smuts’s secondment to Whitehall suited Botha well. Although it robbed the South African Premier of the presence of his most trusted adviser and confidant, he could be certain that Smuts would defend South Africa’s interests to the hilt in London at a time when his unpopularity at home was a political liability. It was also expedient for Smuts’s reputation that he was ‘able to quit the scene’ for a while and stifle the allegations emanating from Africa that it was ‘very far from being the case’ that he had ‘all but finished the job’11 there.

  Back in East Africa, Smuts’s sudden departure and the withdrawal of almost all of the South African troops from the campaign caused utter chaos. The remaining troops, a bewilderingly heterogeneous collection of soldiery, had been decimated by the advances of 1916 and the stalemate on the Rufiji front, and the ‘very unthankful and heart-breaking task’12 of restoring their morale and fighting capacity fell to Major-General Hoskins, Inspector-General of the King’s African Rifles. Among the logistical services his appointment ‘immediately [ensured that] a more normal set of conditions prevailed’. Major Hazleton, the senior Supply and Transport officer, noticed that his staff set about their task with ‘a new zest’, and were able to ‘[start] afresh to calculate our requirements on organised lines with more or less cut and dried facts as to numbers of forces and the extent and object of their operations’.13

  The state of the combat troops was more troubling, however, and Hoskins’s initial reaction was to request renewed assistance from South Africa. He was a popular figure in the south, and his reconciliatory conduct when serving on the Military Governor’s Staff in Pretoria at the end of the Anglo-South African war had earned him many friends in high places, but his appeal met with only limited success. Botha wanted to draw a line under the campaign, and told Hoskins that he was ‘much concerned’ about the reaction of his electorate if any troops were sent back to East Africa. In March, 6/SAI, 7/SAI and 8/SAI were declared unavailable as ‘the larger proportion of the men of these regiments’ were deemed ‘physically unfit to return’; and replacing them with fresh drafts was said to be ‘out of the question’ while recruiting was under way for more troops for the war in Europe. A ‘strong feeling’ of reluctance to serve in East Africa had resulted from the tales of returning soldiers, leaving Botha no option but to discount the possibility of a ‘renewed employment of white Union troops . . . on grounds of health, transport and expense’.14

  Botha’s reaction put Hoskins in a quandary. Two battalions of infantry – 7/SAI and 8/SAI – did eventually return to East Africa during 1917; Colonel Morris’s Cape Corps, whose men had shown themselves to be indefatigable and resourceful soldiers, remained in the field; and a few hundred South African troops stayed on with Northey’s force. But to all intents and purposes ‘the big South African Expeditionary Force’ had ‘melted like butter in the sun’,15 leaving Hoskins with an acute manpower crisis. The loss of the South African mounted troops – known locally as the Kabure – was particularly serious: without cavalry of some description no further advance was possible. In time, the KAR Mounted Infantry and Indian 25th Cavalry would show that they were more effective (and disciplined) than the Boer irregulars, but at the beginning of 1917 Hoskins had no reason to believe that time was a luxury that the War Office would allow him. The declaration of victory made by ‘that damned fellow Smuts’16 – as many of Hoskins’s officers referred to their former commander-in-chief – had prompted the War Office to request
that he release eight infantry battalions, five artillery batteries, his armoured cars and the planes and pilots of 26th Squadron (Royal Flying Corps) for deployment elsewhere, and it took Hoskins weeks to convince his superiors that the situation was not quite as his predecessor claimed.*

  On 1 March Hoskins informed the War Office that although the military establishment in East Africa still exceeded 40,000 troops on paper, the ration strength of units that were considered reliable was only 24,000 rifles – and fewer than half that number were fit for combat. This completely precluded defeating an enemy of similar size, given the vastness of the territory through which von Lettow-Vorbeck could retreat; and, as Hoskins warned, if the enemy chose to withdraw into Portuguese East Africa there would be nothing he could do to stop such a move. The only possible solution lay in continuing to draw on India, to give a prominent role to the recently arrived Gold Coast Regiment and the Nigerian Brigade, and to speed up the expansion of the King’s African Rifles. Indeed so desperate was the search for any available manpower that troops from the West Indies – the 2nd West India Regiment, who had fought in the Cameroons, and the volunteers of the British West Indies Regiment – were to find themselves posted to East Africa.