by Adam Cruise
For some reason, instead of fighting, on 3 July Franke persuaded a reluctant Seitz to send a message to Botha requesting a cessation of hostilities. At their second meeting, Seitz again hailed the strong position of the German armies in Europe and proposed to maintain the status quo. Botha flatly refused, aware that his position was becoming less tenuous by the hour with Franke’s reluctance to act decisively.
Brits’s capture of Fort Namutoni ultimately prompted Franke to begin persuading Seitz to surrender. The Schütztruppe were surrounded and, he believed, irretrievably hemmed in. It would be a fruitless exercise to continue to fight and unnecessarily waste men’s lives. It was an unusual argument in a war made infamously iniquitous by decisions that cost hundreds of thousands of lives.
Botha, in the meantime, sent a motor car with a message for Myburgh. He was to move on Tsumeb and attack it from the north. Unbeknown to Botha but known to the German command, after releasing the detachment of prisoners at Namutoni, Brits had begun probing south towards Tsumeb as well.
13
Kilo 500
ON 4 JULY, AN increasingly desperate Seitz dispatched another message, this time requesting a meeting to discuss terms for unconditional surrender. Botha agreed to meet on 6 July midway between Otavi and Khorab, at Kilo 500. The Germans marked the railway from Swakopmund to Tsumeb every kilometre. Kilo or Kilometre 500 just happened to fall directly between the two forces. A local armistice was arranged, but Botha was careful to exclude Myburgh and Brits so as not to interfere with their advances. Seitz received this news both verbally and in writing from Botha’s chief of staff, Collyer.1
On the morning of 6 July, Beves led the 1st Infantry Brigade and the heavy artillery into Otavi. With their arrival, Franke’s last window of opportunity closed and Botha was now in a position to lay out his terms with the utmost confidence in his military strength, even though he still had no idea as to Brits’s whereabouts, or Myburgh’s for that matter. Myburgh’s horse-men had finally overrun the disorientated von Kleist and were now swarming into Tsumeb. It was the last skirmish of the campaign, although no one realised it at the time. When Myburgh entered Tsumeb, he freed the main body of prisoners of war, including Lieutenant Colonel Grant and the men who fought at Sandfontein, as well as those unfortunate souls who had refused Maritz’s call to rebel at Kakamas. There were also a handful of Portuguese soldiers who had been taken prisoner at Naulila and Mucasso. The released prisoners were given arms and handed the duty of guarding Tsumeb while Myburgh prepared to move on Khorab if the time came.
At Kilo 500, Seitz was a different man to the garrulous governor of the previous meetings. Now taciturn and anxious, it was clear that he was finding defeat a bitter pill to swallow. However, as Collyer wrote, ‘the helplessness of an adversary was a pure passport to General Botha’s sympathy and he endeavoured … to mitigate the soreness of defeat’.2 The prime minister was prepared to send the German reservist troops – the Burenvreikorps – home on parole. They could keep their rifles and horses, and continue life as before. Similarly, German civilians were allowed to remain where they were, and schools, farms and businesses could continue to function. The regular Schütztruppe units had to ‘accept the fortune of war’ and would be interned until peace was achieved in Europe.3 Those few deemed a security threat would be deported after the war, while the rest could return to their lives in the colony or Germany. The officers could keep their swords and service pistols, but would be interned separately on various farms, rather than in the camps with the rank and file. (Botha, obviously alive to Omaruru’s affection for the colony’s last German commander, would comfortably intern Franke on a farm near the town for the remainder of the war.)
In a last-ditch attempt, Seitz openly accused Botha of arming coloured soldiers, wrongly suspecting a South African hand in the spontaneous Baster revolt earlier in the year.4 No doubt he hoped that the Germans would be treated with more consideration for being on the receiving end of such a ‘heinous’ war crime. But Botha vehemently denied the accusation, forcing the German governor to change tack and accept the terms offered.
End game: the Schütztruppe are surrounded
Botha telegraphed his recommendations to Pretoria for approval by the Union cabinet and the British governor general to South Africa, Sydney Charles Buxton. He added this rider: ‘We are in a position where we can afford to be generous.’5 Seitz tested Botha’s generosity somewhat when he asked, rather impetuously, if the Schütztruppe could keep their artillery, a request that was firmly denied.
This last may explain the Germans’ actions following the meeting. Under orders, a contingent of soldiers jettisoned most of the big guns, as well as wagonloads of ammunition and Willy Trück’s broken aeroplane, into the nearby deep-water lake of Otjikoto. Presumably the Germans wanted to prevent the South Africans getting their hands on their artillery. Whether they were afraid the South Africans would use the weapons against them in future campaigns in other theatres of war like East Africa, or whether they simply wanted to deny Botha the fruits of victory, we will never know as the Germans never recorded their reasoning.
It was at Kilo 500 that Botha finally learnt that Brits was in possession of Fort Namutoni. Franke did not hide his admiration for this feat and openly confirmed to Botha that if it were not for the Boer general arriving at Namutoni, he would most certainly have launched a counterattack.6
Botha was now eager to make contact with Brits and Myburgh so as to acquaint them with the latest developments and to check on their positions, ammunition supplies and other necessities, as there was still a small possibility of hostilities resuming. The quickest and easiest way to make contact was via the telephone at Franke’s headquarters in Khorab, a request for the use of which was readily granted. Botha’s adjutant, Captain Enselin, warned him that the line would be tapped and that the Germans no doubt understood Afrikaans. Botha accordingly spoke to his two brigadier generals, one after the other, in Zulu.7 Since all three hailed from the same area near Zululand, they were well versed in the language and could freely discuss delicate matters without fear of being understood by eavesdroppers.
At his headquarters in Otavi on the morning of 8 July, Botha received both cabinet’s and Buxton’s approval of his recommendations, with some minor alterations. He immediately telegraphed these to Seitz, who responded that evening, arguing that some of the terms were unclear. Botha telegraphed back, stating matter-of-factly that there was no ambiguity and that if Seitz did not accept the terms by 2 a.m. the following day, hostilities would recommence. Botha had already instructed his forces to be ready, and in the early hours of the morning of the 9th he ordered his men to assemble in the freezing July air. While the 1st Infantry Brigade prepared to march straight up the line towards Khorab, Myburgh made ready to gallop in from the north from his position just south of Tsumeb, Manie Botha to flank from the east, and Lukin from the west.
Half an hour after the deadline had passed and with the men making their final checks, Seitz’s letter accepting the conditions of the surrender arrived.8 Later that morning, Seitz, Franke and a number of their staff arrived at Kilo 500 by train to find Botha, Collyer and their attendants reclining around a table under the half-shade of Burkea africana, a wild syringa or Omuparara tree, a large deciduous tree that occurs all over tropical and sub-tropical Africa. At 10 a.m., German South-West Africa formally surrendered.
Seitz made one last attempt to extract better terms, which annoyed Franke who thought his soon-to-be ex-governor’s filibustering unbecoming of Botha’s generosity. Franke was overheard curtly berating Seitz for trifling over insignificant details. Botha, however, was courteous and deferential, and made an impression on the German commander when he took the tray of refreshments from an aide and personally handed them around.9 After some further meek parley, the terms of surrender were agreed upon and the signatures of Botha, Seitz and Franke ratified the document. With that, the German occupation of South-West Africa ended and the first successful Allied campaign in th
e Great War concluded.
It was the British governor general, Viscount Buxton, who commissioned the plaque at Kilo 500 to commemorate what became known as the Treaty of Khorab. Buxton was touring the territory, now under his jurisdiction, in October 1919.10 After the war ended on 11 November 1918, South-West Africa was declared a League of Nations Mandate territory under the Treaty of Versailles. South Africa was awarded the colony and made responsible for its administration, with the future possibility of permanent acquisition into the Union. The treaty was signed on 28 June 1919.
The Khorab Memorial is nothing spectacular. A small gravestone-style edifice, it was erected under the Omuparara tree where the actual signing took place. On the headstone, a brass plaque reads: ‘This marks the place where hostilities terminated in South West Africa, Khorab, 9th July 1915’. After J.B.M. Hertzog came to power in 1924, the memorial was all but forgotten until 1973, when the South African government finally declared it a national monument. Curiously, the government bestowed the same status on Franke Tower in Omaruru in 1964, almost a decade before they officially recognised Khorab. Franke’s exploits, it seems, were more important to the South African authorities than Louis Botha’s.
Today, the small town of Otavi consists of a large granary alongside the railway line, a couple of petrol stations, a motel and one or two B&Bs. There is not much for a tourist to see here, except the Khorab Memorial. But it is difficult to find. It stands hidden in deep, overgrown bush a short distance from the railway line and some kilometres north of the town. Barbed wire lies loosely about, obvious remnants of a fence once intended to keep out vandals but which has long ceased to fulfil its purpose. All that remains of the Omuparara tree is a burnt-out stump, and if it were not for a rough stone plinth around its trunk, one would not know it was the very tree underneath which the peace treaty was signed. A new one is growing in between the stump and the memorial, the only rejuvenation that this monument is ever going to get.
It is a shame that the monument – the testament to a campaign that changed the course of Namibian and South African history – has been wholly neglected, but unsurprising given the fixation of successive yet disparate governments with trying to write Botha out of the history books.
There is another memorial to the war nearby, although this one is incidental rather than intentional and can only be seen by scuba divers. Lake Otjikoto is Namibia’s premier diving destination for a number of reasons. Firstly, it is not a lake in the traditional sense, but rather a deep hole flooded by the natural water table that runs a few metres below the surface of the land. The hole is about 100 metres in diameter and was formed when a cave’s roof collapsed. Nearby Lake Guinas was formed in exactly the same way and it is assumed that a vast network of watery tunnels connects them, but this has yet to be proved. Otjikoto’s depth is unknown, as the lengths of its tunnels have never been explored, and the water is opaque, but otherwise it makes for excellent diving.
Secondly, Otjikoto and Guinas are home to a very rare species of cichlid, Otjikoto tilapia (Tilapia guinasana). This unique ten-centimetre-long iridescent fish actually originated in Lake Guinas, but was introduced to Otjikoto in order to safeguard the species from agricultural pesticides that had run into the former. What makes this little fish so fascinating is how it got to be here in the first place. The two lakes are hundreds of kilometres from the nearest surface water. One theory is that the underground network of tunnels is possibly far greater than anyone suspects. The fish may have been cut off by some natural change, such as a tunnel collapsing, and left to evolve alone in their small aquatic world.
Thirdly, and most fascinating of all, is the First World War military detritus in Lake Otjikoto, deposited there by the Schütztruppe just before they signed the Treaty of Khorab in July 1915. South African soldiers managed to recover most of the guns in 1916, including one of Grant’s 13-pounder quick-firing field guns captured at Sandfontein. They repaired them and, just as Seitz had feared, used them in the East African Campaign against the Schütztruppe. The same 13-pounder, number 289, went on to serve Smuts’s forces against the striking miners in Johannesburg in 1922. It is now on display at the Gunners’ Memorial in Potchefstroom.11
In 1983, a mining company called Tsumeb Corporation Limited commissioned divers from a local diving club to recover more of the guns. The divers hoisted up a few of the large German Leichte Feldgeschutz C73s, some smaller Gebirgs L/14 M98 cannons, a Krupp Pom-Pom gun, the twin of Grant’s 13-pounder (number 288), some shells and a transport wagon. The divers left a number of German artillery pieces and quite a few shells scattered along the various shelves in the lake for posterity, and today it is illegal to remove any more of the military detritus so recreational divers can enjoy a fine underwater military museum.
It is not just the artillery guns and ammunition that attract bubble-blowers from around the world, but also a sealed safe said to contain six million German gold marks. According to legend, this was most of the colony’s wealth taken directly from the coffers of the treasury when Seitz left Windhoek to join Franke at Omaruru. The safe has yet to be recovered and for now remains the stuff of legend.
The ancient San, and later the Ovambo, regarded the twin lakes of Otjikoto and Guinas with circumspection. No doubt the strange pair of shimmering ‘eyes’ in a land entirely devoid of natural surface water was regarded as haunted, and as a result locals never ventured near them. It therefore came as no surprise when one of the German soldiers apparently got entangled in a rope attached to a cannon as it was being tossed off the cliff into Otjikoto. The hapless gunner joined the weapons in their watery grave and locals swear that his ghost haunts the edge of the lake to this day.
The Tsumeb Museum located on Tsumeb’s main street is possibly the best historical testament to Botha’s war. Although small and unassuming, the museum houses all the guns that were retrieved in 1983, and the establishment has done an excellent job of restoring them. Grant’s light 13-pounder number 288 is there in shiny splendour alongside two similar-calibre Leichte Feldgeschutz C73s (the 13-pounder had a 7.64-centimetre calibre while the C73 had a 7.85-centimetre calibre). The 13-pounder has the name ‘Tulio’ crudely painted on its armour plate. Tulio was the name of one of the scuba divers who helped recover the guns from Otjikoto. True to San and Ovambo misgivings, when the 13-pounder was being lifted out of the lake the steel cable supporting it snapped and the violent recoil of one of the loose ends severed one of Tulio’s arms clean off. Could it have been the same gun that dragged the unfortunate Schütztruppe soldier to his death, or the one that took a direct shell hit at Sandfontein that killed its crew but only inflicted slight damage on the gun itself? Perhaps the 13-pounder quick-firing field gun number 288 is cursed.
The Krupp-manufactured Pom-Pom gun on display is a nasty weapon. Botha knew the small, light, easy-to-transport cannon that operates like a machine gun intimately. He had used it with devastating effect against the British during the Boer War at the Battle of Spioenkop, where the mighty British Army experienced one of its most humiliating and bloody defeats. In a battle that included the likes of Winston Churchill, as a war correspondent, and Mohandas Gandhi, as a stretcher-bearer, the pride of the British Army lost almost 250 men, many to the single Pom-Pom that raked their exposed position on the top of Spioenkop hill. Botha would not have relished the idea of the tables being turned on him in 1915, with his horse-men charging at entrenched Schütztruppe positions knowing how devastating this gun could be. Thankfully, the Germans were more concerned with saving their own corduroy-clad hides than cutting down the enemy.
Besides weaponry, the Tsumeb Museum is also in possession of the narrow-gauge steam engine that transported the German high command to the signing of the peace treaty at Kilo 500, as well as the chassis and gearbox of Governor Seitz’s Mercedes-Benz, which more than likely hustled the legendary safe of gold marks out of Windhoek. It is strange to think that were it not for the Germans jettisoning their artillery into Lake Otjikoto, this museum, the only
one dedicated almost exclusively to Botha’s campaign, may never have existed. There are other exhibits on Tsumeb and the mine, but the artillery is by far its primary focus. It is another reminder of how Botha’s exploits have been allowed to be forgotten.
14
Reverberations
AFTER SIGNING THE Treaty of Khorab, Botha left the territory for good, having appointed Brigadier General Beves as interim military governor. As promised, the German soldiers and officers were interned in prisoner-of-war camps for the remainder of the war. Of the pilots, Lieutenant Alexander von Scheele was kept at a camp at Okahandja. After the war, he immigrated to Argentina before returning to Germany to join the Luftwaffe, where he attained the rank of major. He was eventually killed in an aeroplane crash in Spain shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War. Lieutenant Paul Fiedler briefly returned to his native Austria, but moved back to South-West Africa where he managed a farm until 1926, when he again returned to Europe. Willy Trück lived a long life as a Namibian farmer and ultimately moved to Cape Town. He died in his home in Sea Point when he was well into his nineties, having lived through the history of aerial bombing, from his own humble beginnings to the launch of the Northrop Grumman B-2 Spirit, also known as the Stealth Bomber.1
Prime Minister Botha arrived home to a rapturous welcome, greeted at the Union Buildings by an adoring crowd. The victory came at a time when the Allies desperately needed some good news. The horrors of trench warfare were starting to become apparent and the passenger liner RMS Lusitania had been sunk by German submarines only a month before, with a terrible loss of civilian life. Botha, commander of the first Allied victory in the field, became the hero the world sorely needed. His exploits were compared to a romantic medieval crusade, with horsemen fighting for their holy rights. Instead of tank and rocket, horse and nature dictated and directed proceedings. Even after modern technology – aeroplanes, armoured cars, anti-aircraft guns – was introduced, the campaign in South-West Africa remained a far cry from the mechanised hideousness of twentieth-century warfare.