by Adam Cruise
When war was declared between Britain and Germany the following month, De la Rey took it as a sign to act. The vision clearly indicated that Germany (represented by the grey bull) would defeat Britain (the red bull), and the number ‘15’ obviously pointed to 15 August 1914. (Meintjes points out that the numbers of the date ‘1914’ also add up to fifteen.)16 De la Rey set this as the date for an armed uprising against the British, in which he would ride up to Pretoria with an army of men and declare a republic with Botha as president. The time had come for the prime minister to act on his so-called promise at Vereeniging.
Because of the old general’s enormous influence among Afrikaners, Botha was genuinely concerned that anti-British sentiment would grow. In addition, as Botha’s friend, De la Rey was convinced of the prime minister’s support against Britain and was dragging him into his own precipitous cause. However, the other Boer veterans hankering after a republic were not so sure the time was yet ripe to act against Britain. Major Jan Kemp, an officer in the Active Citizen Force, thought De la Rey was acting prematurely and went to visit him on his farm in order to persuade him to rather await the outcome of the war before declaring a republic.17 Kemp was echoed by other republicans like Manie Maritz (also an officer in the citizen force), Christiaan de Wet and C.F. Beyers, who, having just returned from Europe after witnessing German army manoeuvres, was under the impression that the Germans would easily defeat the British. Yet he too counselled patience.
Botha faced a tough decision. If he invaded South-West Africa with an unready and fractious army, he risked jolting the more moderate republicans out of their moratorium and into armed protest. He was also keenly aware that he would face stiff opposition from the nationalists under Hertzog, whose clamours advocating neutrality grew more and more hysterical. Plus there was the real threat that if Germany did defeat Britain in the war, as Beyers believed, South Africa could find itself in the unenviable position of facing the full wrath and might of imperial Germany. It was also no secret that the kaiser was hankering after an African super-colony, similar or even bigger in size than the British Raj in India. The desired colony would include all previous British, Portuguese, French and Belgian territories, and most of South Africa, save for a small republic around Swaziland and present-day KwaZulu-Natal set aside for pro-German Boers.
But if Botha remained neutral or went over to the Germans, his grand designs for reconciliation would be scuppered. English-speaking South Africans would never accept such conditions and armed protest from this quarter was equally likely. Besides, he was under no illusions as to what Britain would do if South Africa did stay neutral or go to the other side.
In any case, the prime minister had become Britain’s close ally. He had come to understand and accept the Empire’s world vision and had visited the island a few times since the Boer War, where the British public treated him, and the other generals, magnanimously. Botha had struck up close friendships with men like Churchill and even Dr Leander Starr Jameson, once the most hated man in the old Boer republics. Jameson, who had become prime minister of the Cape Colony just prior to union in 1910, was leader of the Unionist Party that had contested Botha in the first elections. Jameson was subsequently leader of the official opposition in the first South African Parliament. After the schism with Hertzog, the Unionists, whose ideology differed little from Botha’s South African Party, became the prime minister’s strongest support base in Parliament. He would need them to ratify his decision if he chose to accept Britain’s appeal.
By the time Britain renewed its request on 8 August, Botha had already sounded out both his cabinet and Parliament and knew which way they would swing. He also knew that pro-invasion sentiment across the four provinces was marginally greater among the general populace than anti-invasion, but that did not mean the pro-republican minority in the Orange Free State and Transvaal would accept a decision to invade without more than a voiced protest, which was about as far as other anti-invasion elements like Hertzog were prepared to go.
There was one other matter for Botha to consider: the considerable territorial gain to his country should South Africa ally itself with a victorious Britain. If the South Africans, without the support of British imperial troops, were indeed to kick the Germans out of South-West Africa, they could potentially secure the huge German colony as their own. This idea appealed to Botha, who, like the kaiser, had designs on an enlarged southern African state, which would also include the British protectorates of Bechuanaland, Basutoland, Swaziland and Nyasaland, as well as Southern and Northern Rhodesia, and perhaps the southern half of Mozambique.18 If he, without Britain’s help, defeated the German detachments across the border, he could see no reason why Britain would not grant him his wish.
He was also convinced that if he could defeat the four or five regiments of Schütztruppe rapidly and cost-effectively, it would nullify the opposition of the nationalists and republicans, who would then be won over by the immense economic and social benefit for Afrikaner prestige and culture, which could be developed and enhanced if a ‘Greater South Africa’ were achieved.
In truth, Botha’s mind was already made up when he received the first cable from De Villiers-Graaff while in Northern Rhodesia. The fact that he cancelled his sea passage home in favour of rail is indicative of this. The boat that would have taken him home flew the German flag and Botha must have known that if he was on board when war was declared, he may well have been taken hostage or at least interned until he pledged allegiance to the kaiser. Botha was correct in his prediction, no siener required, because he would indeed have been on board far out to sea on 4 August. As it happened, the steamer was recalled mid-passage to Dar es Salaam in German East Africa.19
And so, despite an unready army, despite the republicans and despite the rankling of the nationalists, Botha replied to London on 8 August 1914, unequivocally accepting their request. South Africa would undertake to neutralise the ports of Windhoek, its artificially constructed neighbour Swakopmund, and Lüderitz, as well as the wireless station in Windhoek. Botha was going on the offensive in German South-West Africa.
The decision now made, Botha knew he needed to neutralise De la Rey, so he summoned his old friend to Pretoria on 12 August for a heart-to-heart discussion. Apparently during the all-night vigil Botha was able to persuade De la Rey not to mobilise against Britain, reasoning that while the siener had mentioned the 15th, he had never said which month.20 This seemed to placate the general, who finally agreed not to act. The following morning, Beyers also contacted De la Rey asking him to exercise restraint, at least until the Germans had Britain on her knees. For the time being, at least, the fiery republican elements against invasion were doused.
The 15th of August passed without incident. As South African forces mustered in the remote north-western harbour of Port Nolloth, Parliament prepared to formally ratify Botha’s decision to invade the German colony. On 14 September, with troops already mobilised, Parliament officially gave the green light. Upon hearing this news the next morning, Commandant General Beyers and Major Kemp, along with a number of other senior Boer War officers, resigned their posts in protest.21
In a move that would prove the prophetic value of ‘15’ after all, De la Rey aligned himself with Beyers the following morning. Later that day, 15 September, the two men left Pretoria in the commandant’s Daimler, headed for Potchefstroom where they were to meet Kemp. A roadblock had been set up in an outlying Johannesburg suburb in order to capture a notorious gang of criminals that had killed a police officer a few hours earlier. Tensions among the police were high and, as Beyers and De la Rey approached, a nervous officer opened fire, apparently mistaking De la Rey for a member of the gang. The old war veteran was killed instantly.
De la Rey’s death rocked the nation and galvanised the republicans. They believed De la Rey was killed to quash anti-imperialist sentiment, and openly accused Botha and the government of conspiracy and murder. There was a widespread call for an armed uprising, but the prime mini
ster managed to quell the tension with a hastily called special meeting with the remaining republican leaders – Beyers, Kemp and De Wet. Although the meeting was by no means successful – the trio asked Botha to refrain from pursuing the invasion on Britain’s behalf, but he would not budge – it adjourned reasonably amicably, with the republicans reinforcing their intention to protest, albeit in a non-violent fashion. The three were clearly still following a wait-and-see policy as far as the war in Europe was concerned, convinced that Germany would soon be victorious and the anti-republican Botha resolutely discredited.
The prime minister, however, was now more steadfast in his decision to invade than ever.
2
Groundwork
GOING INTO SOUTH-WEST AFRICA was a formidable undertaking for the South Africans. In 1914 the Germans had only surveyed parts of their colony and consequently there was a dearth of reliable maps. According to Brigadier General J.J. Collyer, who became Botha’s chief of staff at the end of September 1914, the invading soldiers were forced to rely on verbal information from local guides and traders, a fair dose of instinct and a good deal of luck.1 Unlike the German forces, who knew the lie of the land intimately, the South Africans were essentially entering terra incognita.
Even today, the Namibian map has a lot of blank spaces. The sheer size of the landscape makes for a great natural fortress against anyone wishing to invade. The entire length of Namibia’s west coast consists of a 100-kilometre-wide belt of one of the earth’s most inhospitable deserts, the Namib. Little grows except for the 1 000-year-old Welwitschia mirabilis plant that somehow manages to extract what little moisture there is in the air to survive. Here and there, bisecting the dunes, are ephemeral river courses that the local Herero call omurambas, ghost rivers. These, like the Swakop River that ‘flows’ into the frigid Atlantic just north of Walvis Bay, are almost always dry apart from the odd waterhole and small green oasis. There are only two natural seaports along the entire 1 000-kilometre coastline – Lüderitz in the south and Walvis Bay in the centre. Both are forlorn and bleak places and are often shrouded in a dense ocean fog that, apart from keeping the coastal belt relatively cool in comparison to the inferno a few kilometres inland, gives the impression of something sinister.
In 1914 Walvis Bay was a British enclave. It had been in existence as a British port long before the Germans occupied the surrounding territory. Requiring a port of their own, the Germans were forced to create an artificial one further up the coast. They built a wooden jetty in 1898 at the mouth of the Tsoakhaub River. The chosen site was the next best thing to a natural port, having offshore geological features that kept the bay placid and a good supply of underground, albeit brackish, water. Tsoakhaub is a Nama word meaning ‘excrement opening’ and described the dirty river in flood spilling into the ocean. The Germans mispronounced it as ‘Swakop’ and in 1896, when the district was officially proclaimed, the settlement was named Swakopmund. By 1914 a steel jetty was under construction.
Beyond the Namib Desert, the country is protected by a series of craggy mountain ranges, the most dominant being the Khomas Hochland escarpment that acts like a gigantic buttress protecting the capital, Windhoek, which lies on the fertile plateau further inland in roughly the centre of the country. Directly north of the capital, endless dry bushveld and scattered mountain ranges sweep up past the giant Etosha saltpan all the way to the Kunene River, which forms the border with Angola. Back in 1914, Angola, or Portuguese West Africa as it was known, was a Portuguese colony on paper only. In practice, the Portuguese had very little control over the huge territory, save for the ports and the odd inland fort. Most of it was de facto independent of Portugal.
Interestingly, in 1914 the Portuguese had a controversial presence on the Caprivi Strip. Germany’s acquisition of the Caprivi, an anomalous 400-kilometre-long narrow strip that plunges like an arrow into the heart of the subcontinent, in an 1890 exchange with Britain was an example of characteristic nineteenth-century colonial posturing. The German chancellor, Count Leo von Caprivi, and the kaiser had a grand notion to link South-West Africa with their colony in East Africa via the Zambezi River. It was thought to be so strategic a move that the Germans willingly gave over Zanzibar to the British in order to annex the strip. Lord Salisbury, the British prime minister at the time, was a shrewd negotiator, however, and duped von Caprivi in the fine print. The Germans were unaware that Cecil John Rhodes, as part of his own grand scheme, had already privately claimed the land north of the Zambezi, effectively driving a permanent wedge between the two German colonies. Furthermore, the river itself proved unnavigable. The strip thus came to an inglorious end at the confluence of the Zambezi and Chobe rivers, just above the Victoria Falls.
Too late, the Germans also discovered that it was virtually impossible to travel along the strip from west to east. After the Okavango River, there is an almost impassable tract of waterless dune belt before a series of miasmic swamps at its eastern-most point. To all intents and purposes, the annexation of the strip to German South-West Africa was an entirely futile enterprise. An imperial resident, for his sins, was housed near the apex of the strip, on the south bank of the Zambezi, in a malarial and isolated outpost called Schuckmannsburg.
Southern Africa at the outbreak of war in 1914
At the hilt of the strip named after Chancellor von Caprivi, the Portuguese constructed a mud-walled fort in 1911. Called Mucasso, the fort was controversial from its inception, as it was built just inside German territory. At the time, the Germans were not too concerned about this far-flung violation, until sometime later that year when rumours began circulating that the Portuguese garrison there had gone on a rampage against the local tribes, who were in effect German citizens. That in itself was not cause enough for the German colonial governor to react, but then news reached him that the German imperial resident at Mucasso had been killed in a skirmish with the Portuguese while trying to protect the locals. This immediately caused a stir, souring relations between Germany and Portugal.
The commanding officer of the Schütztruppe, Major Joachim von Heydebreck, was dispatched to the Caprivi with a large force to punish the garrison at Mucasso, but, on arriving, he found the imperial resident very much alive. His superiors in Windhoek, meanwhile, had done an about-face, deciding that the matter of the fort should be handed over for international arbitration. Von Heydebreck was recalled, but not before he showed the Portuguese a display of German military prowess that kept them well ensconced behind their mud walls until the outbreak of war three years later.2
Schuckmannsburg, or Luhonono as it is now called, has the honour of being the first German base to be taken by the Allies in the Great War, albeit without a shot being fired.3 In theory, the whole of the Caprivi Strip was under British control even before the main South African advance in late September 1914. The desperately lonely German imperial resident, Lieutenant Victor von Frankenberg, had apparently got wind of the outbreak of war from a missionary posted in Andara on the Okavango River on the western end of the strip. The concerned missionary had sent a couple of runners across the difficult terrain to warn von Frankenberg,4 but it is conceivable that the imperial resident already knew. He was on cordial terms with his British counterpart, the district commissioner in Northern Rhodesia, who was based at Sesheke, a village just upriver on the north bank of the Zambezi. Unlike Schuckmannsburg, Sesheke was adequately connected to the small town of Livingstone, which in turn was linked to South Africa via the rail system. The district commissioner surely must have heard as soon as war was declared and passed the information on to von Frankenberg.
The two men were practically the only Europeans stationed along that stretch of the Zambezi, except for von Frankenberg’s assistant, Sergeant Fischer, and possibly a secretary or two working for the British district commissioner. To quell their repressive loneliness, they must have sometimes met to share notes, hunt and enjoy formal dinners. They would have discussed the impending war and would have been under no illusions a
s to their respective courses of action once it broke out. Besides a tiny contingent of native irregulars, von Frankenberg had no military presence, while his opposite number could quickly dispatch mounted Rhodesian police units with ammunition and heavy machine guns from Livingstone and Bulawayo.
The details of surrender had probably been discussed weeks before the event, so when the Rhodesian police did appear on the opposite bank of the river on 21 September 1914, von Frankenberg initiated a well-rehearsed exhibition of formal surrender. As the British crossed over, a bugle sounded and von Frankenberg’s irregulars stood to attention on the muddy parade ground, guns (if they had any) slung across their backs. The German flag was lowered, the Union Jack raised, and the imperial resident, in full regalia, and his secretary were taken to Livingstone, where they remained as prisoners, or rather as guests, until the end of the war. Von Frankenberg’s natives were simply sent home. The last German imperial resident of the Caprivi had even taken the trouble beforehand to inform the local chief of a forthcoming, although temporary, change in sovereignty, and expressed the hope that they would see each other soon after Germany won the war.5
Today there is nothing left of von Frankenberg’s lonely house. The South Africans were initially even more uninterested in the incongruous strip than the Germans. After the war, they handed it over to the British authorities in Bechuanaland, hoping that it would be fully assimilated into that protectorate to save them having to contend with the obvious difficulties of administrating it from Windhoek. For some inexplicable reason, the Caprivi was handed back to the South Africans in 1929, but even then it was not completely under the ambit of the South West African administration. The eastern sector of the strip, with the outpost at Schuckmannsburg, fell under the direct jurisdiction of Pretoria.6 Sometime in the 1930s, the South Africans destroyed the imperial residence, preferring an administrative base on higher ground at Katima Mulilo, just opposite Sesheke.