Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  A few days later, we make camp in a large clearing with more good water than we’ve seen in a month. The scouts report back that the enemy is close by, so we fortify the camp more than usual. The marines set up the major’s tent under the shade of a big, gnarled camelthorn tree. Once again, the wagons are drawn up in a square around the clearing, and a strong barricade of thorn bushes is erected around the perimeter. Heavily guarded outposts are put at the four corners.

  The other surgeons and I leave the setting up of the mobile hospitals to the orderlies while we tend to the growing number of sick men in the camp. “We’re almost out of supplies,” I note as we check the dwindling inventory.

  “The main division should be catching up with us soon,” Velten says. “Then we’ll have everything we need.”

  I doubt his optimism. We’ve been looking for signals from the division for several nights, but we’ve seen nothing. And its inventories are likely to be as low as ours. Still, it’s better to be optimistic in front of the men.

  “At least we’re going to get a few days’ rest. And we’ll get to wash up. That will help a lot,” I say brightly. “And you’re right. The others will likely get here before we have to march again.”

  But there’s little time for the medical staff to rest, given the increasing number of patients. I don’t get to relax until late at night. As I lie there on the ground, I look up at the endless sea of stars – some so close I feel as if I could reach out and touch them. I gaze at the Southern Cross and the other constellations that are so different from the ones I saw in Fürth. I’m amazed at the colors bursting over the galaxies, like fireworks frozen in time. I’m reminded of God’s promise to Abraham: “I will multiply your seed as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have spoken of will I give unto your seed, and they shall inherit it forever.” I imagine Abraham looking up at a desert sky and pondering that promise. I sleep, somehow comforted by the knowledge that my family is part of that covenant made thousands of years ago in a desert very much like this one.

  Morning comes early, and with it, a lot of commotion. All of the home guard and most of our officers are preparing to ride out on a scouting party. They’ve had reports that a herd of Herero cattle is grazing at Owikokorero. The major intends to capture the herd, which will provide us with meat and milk. And the loss of the cattle would be a blow to the enemy. As the officers saddle their horses and harness oxen to a machine gun and a two-wheeled wagon, the medical staff helps Velten quickly prepare an emergency kit. He’s to ride with the cavalry just in case his services are needed.

  Riding two abreast, the cavalry heads out of camp on the narrow sandy path. For the rest of us, it’s like a school holiday. Throughout the camp, the men strip off their filthy clothes to wash them in trenches lined with waterproof tent cloths. The joking that has been silenced by the long march returns as the naked men play in the water, splashing it on themselves and their comrades.

  As soon as the other surgeons and I have washed up, we set the orderlies to boiling big pots of water so we can properly clean our surgical instruments and the injured men. It’s an all-day task, but the feeling of clean clothes, clean patients, and clean tools is worth the effort.

  After eating a “dinner” of tough rice, I sit by the fire, writing a letter to Hanna. “Who would have thought that such simple things as clean clothes and the hope of a cup of fresh milk could mean so much?” I write. “Living in these harsh conditions has taught me how blessed we are in Germany. I’m glad that you and Papa and little David will never know such hardship.”

  The sentry shouts, interrupting my writing. A lone rider is coming furiously toward the camp, his horse kicking up a trail of dust that hangs on the air. “It’s one of the home guard,” Geier says. “But where are the others?”

  A few of us grab our medical bags and run to the camp entrance. As I get closer, I recognize the rider. It’s Hansen. But this isn’t the same confidant man who rode out at dawn. He sways from side to side in his saddle, barely holding on as his horse, lathered in sweat, runs wildly into the camp. As the men help Hansen dismount, they pepper him with questions. “What happened?” “Where are the others?”

  Hansen crumples to the ground, too exhausted to speak.

  Captain Dannhauer, one of the few marine officers who remained in camp, steps forward to support him, half carrying Hansen to a campfire where he can rest.

  “Two more are coming!” the sentry shouts.

  Sure enough, two more of the old Africans are riding in, one trailing the other. Their horses are spent, as are the men. They slump in their saddles when they reach the camp. “We lost half the cavalry,” one of them gasps, his voice crusted with emotion and the desert dryness.

  The questions start anew. “Who was killed?” “Where’s the major?” “What happened?” But the riders are too weary to answer.

  Hansen, who has had a drink, weakly calls to me, “The cart is coming with wounded officers.”

  Dannhauer orders the men to strengthen the outposts and sends out a heavily armed expedition, with a few of the doctors, to meet the wounded men. The orderlies gather blankets and stretchers while I prepare for surgery. That means sending some of the convalescing patients, still too sick to return to duty, back to their tents.

  Except for the occasional cry of a bird, the camp is silent as we anxiously wait in the gathering twilight for the remnant of the cavalry to return. Finally, in the distance, I hear the cracking of the long whips.

  “They’re coming!” the sentry shouts.

  I peer into the dusk, trying to get a glimpse of the wagon. At last, it emerges from the bush and rumbles into camp, followed by the machine gun. The harness of the oxen is tangled, and blood gushes from a gaping gash in one of the lead oxen. Several wounded officers sit on the chest in the middle of the wagon, and others lie motionless on the sides. But the major, his face pale and his balding head bloodied, stands upright, keeping his balance despite the precarious pitching of the wagon.

  The orderlies rush forward with blankets and stretchers. I walk to the rear of the wagon to check on the most serious injuries. Blood streams from the tailboard. One of the surgeons tries to treat the major’s head wound, but Glasenapp waves him away. “Tend to the others first,” he says. “They need your attention far more than I do.”

  I help unload the wounded, searching vainly for Velten. The other surgeons and I work late into the night, removing bullets, amputating limbs, and comforting the dying. Whenever we hear another horse enter camp, we send Arnold out to see if it’s Velten. But each time, the orderly returns, shaking his head. Our work is somber, the worst I’ve ever faced. For some of the wounded, there’s little we can do given our limited supplies. I think that’s the worst part – knowing we could have saved a few limbs, perhaps even a few lives, had we been fully equipped. I complete my last surgery and wash up, grateful that we at least have water.

  Hoping to learn more about what happened, I join what’s left of the home guard at their fire. Hansen is there, but many of the men I had become familiar with are missing. “Friedrich wanted to come back, but his leg was too shot up,” Hansen says. He stares into the fire. “I didn’t want to leave him like that. God knows what those devils will do to him.”

  “He had his gun,” Gerd says quietly. “He knew what he had to do.”

  “Old Daniel was one of the lucky ones,” another man says. “He was shot clean through the heart. I doubt he felt a thing.”

  Someone asks about Lieutenant Eggers. “I didn’t see him,” Gerd answers.

  “He went into cover in the bush as soon as we were attacked. He fell there,” Hansen says. “Along with Captain von Francois.”

  I swallow hard. Of all the men in camp, Eggers was the closest I had to a friend. Since leaving Windhük, he had looked out for me. It’s hard to believe he’s dead. Just this morning, I watched him ride out with his hat cocked jauntily over his ear. I try to blink away the tears welling in my eyes. I can’t cry in front of these s
toic settlers who are sitting here dry-eyed despite their heavy losses.

  “And the doctor?” I finally ask.

  Hansen shakes his head. “He was one of the first to fall. The attack came at both the rear and the front of our line, so we had no warning. The whole thing was a trap, and we rode right into it. We didn’t even have a chance to fire the big gun.”

  “There are a lot of dead considering how few were wounded,” I murmur.

  “The Herero don’t take prisoners. Neither do we,” Gerd says. “No one wants to leave a man wounded in such a fight.”

  We sit in silence, mourning the men who didn’t return.

  After a few moments, Hansen lifts his cup in a toast. “To the fallen. They all proved themselves. They held their ground, and they faced death with the same courage that they lived life.”

  A loud boom reverberates through the clearing as balls of red and white fire shoot into the night sky from the signal pistols in the middle of the camp. We stand up and scan the horizon, looking for an answering shot from the main division. But all remains dark.

  “They better get here soon,” Gerd says. “After what happened today, I’m afraid we’re in for a real battle.”

  As soon as the sun rises, Captain Dannhauer sends a dispatch by heliograph, telling of the attack. I can imagine what he’s signaling – “Cavalry attacked at Owikokorero. Seven officers, nineteen men killed. Send help now.”

  We remain at the camp for several more days, giving the wounded time to heal and hoping the main division will join us. Scouts are sent out daily, but they report no sign of the Herero. The fear is that the tribe, being forced to the east by the other divisions, will come at us en masse to break through into the wilderness. With our dwindling numbers, we’re in no position to hold them. We need reinforcements. But there’s no sign of them either.

  Finally, the drinkable water runs out, and we’re forced to march again. Hansen says there are good waterholes ahead, near where our men fell, but the Herero have been guarding them because they need that water for their cattle. As we march, Major von Glasenapp orders foot soldiers to fan out ahead of the main column on either side. The scouts crouch and slink through the dense bushes for long hours. By the end of the day, their hands and arms are cut and swollen from the many thorns embedded in their skin. And with their boots falling apart from the weeks of marching, their feet are blistered stubs of red flesh. I do what I can to ease their pain and recommend they tie their boots together with fresh strips of oxen skin, a trick I picked up from the home guard.

  We’re marching well into the night when the command comes to halt and push up close together. The wagons are quickly drawn into a tight square. Using the wagons as cover, the troops kneel beside them, guns at the ready. It’s a false alarm, and the men are ordered to stack their guns and get their blankets. Guards are posted, but we pass the night without incident.

  We reach the new watering place at noon the next day. It’s a large field, white with lime. But the water we find in the deep holes is good – and plentiful, at least for a few days. Assured that no Herero are lurking close by, the major orders us to make camp. The other surgeons and I tend to the wounded officers. The constant jostling over the wagon ruts the last few days has not been easy on them. Some of the wounds have broken open and are becoming infected. If only we had more antiseptic. Without it, I’m afraid we may have to amputate a few more limbs.

  The camp is quiet the next day as several of the marines and what’s left of the home guard go with Hansen to the spot where our men fell, so they can give their remains a proper burial. The rest of us anxiously await their return. We have lost enough men. We don’t want to lose any more. I spend the afternoon caring for sick soldiers scattered throughout the camp. When I check in on the wounded officers in the field hospital, I’m alarmed by a black infection spreading up the right arm of a young corporal. I feel his forehead. He’s burning with fever.

  “Please, Doctor, don’t take my arm,” the man pleads. “It will get better. Just give me a few days.”

  “You’ll be dead by then.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to live if I’m not whole.” He becomes hysterical.

  Geier, who has just come in from his camp rounds, helps me restrain the corporal as Arnold brings us a dose of morphine. As soon as our patient drifts off, Geier looks at the arm. “That has to come off – now.”

  “I know.” I prepare for surgery.

  I don’t want to be around when the corporal wakes up and finds his arm missing, but it’s a duty I can’t shirk. I keep busy around the hospital wagon, waiting for him to regain consciousness. I hear him moaning and hurry to his side.

  “Doctor, did you ... did you?” he whispers feebly.

  “We had no choice.” I brush his forehead; it’s cooler.

  “It wasn’t ... your choice ... to make ... you dirty Jew.” He turns away from me and closes his eyes.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Geier whispers as I move away from the corporal’s cot. “You did what you had to do. And if he lives, he has you to thank.”

  I turn in that night, weighed down by the life-and-death decisions I’ve had to make over the past few weeks. As I gaze up at the stars, I realize Passover began at sundown. “Mah Nishtana HaLeila HaZeh?” I recite quietly, thinking of all the times over the years that I have asked Papa the ritual question – Why is tonight different from all other nights? – that begins the recounting of God’s deliverance of our people.

  I shake my head. Tonight is not different from any other night for me. There is no seder, no Kiddush, no afikoman, no gathering with family. But perhaps the Angel of Death will pass over us tonight. I can only hope – and pray.

  * * * * *

  We’ve finally been in one place long enough for mail to catch up with us. Cheers go up as the camel rider comes into camp, his saddlebags stuffed with letters. I wait impatiently for my letters, but once I have them, I’m in no hurry to open them. I hold them close to me, savoring their connection to my loved ones. There are several letters – one from Papa and the rest from Hanna.

  I find a place where I can be alone and then arrange the letters by date. I carefully open the first one from Hanna, breathing in the faint scent of my wife. I read slowly, as if fondling every word: “My dearest Kov, It seems like you’ve been gone forever. But then I look at little David, and realize it’s been just a few months. Of course, for him, it’s a lifetime.

  “How I wish you were home to share in the joy of our son. He looks more like you every day. Papa often comments on some little antic, saying he’s just like you. Papa can no longer work, so he sits by David’s cradle, watching over him as he sleeps.

  “We’ve received many letters from you, but none since you left Windhük. There is little talk of the campaign in South West Africa and no reports in the papers, so I can only imagine what your life must be like. I pray that this uprising will end soon and God will return you safely to us. There is talk in the Reichstag of recalling the troops. August Bebel has condemned the war, saying the Herero are justified in their fight for liberation. He has refused to budget for more troops or supplies.”

  I read through the other letters, taking in the routine of my family’s lives. It’s in such sharp contrast to this alien world I’m in. Oh, to be back there, sharing that life with them! I finally come to the last letter, which is thicker than all the rest. I unfold the parchment covered with Hanna’s elegant script to discover a photograph of her holding David. Tears blind me as I stare at the sepia image of my wife and son. My arms ache to cradle my baby, to embrace Hanna. But all I can do is trace their outline with my finger. “Is it worth it?” I can hear Papa asking over the distance. I have to admit, I’m beginning to have my doubts.

  Around the campfires that night, we share our news from home. Many of the men are put off by the talk in the Reichstag. “Bebel should be tried for treason,” one of the lieutenants says. “By his reasoning, we’re the villains. And the deaths of our com
rades were justified.”

  “Without money for more troops and supplies, he’s condemning us to die in this wilderness,” another officer observes.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” the major says. “The Reichstag will come around, or it will be disbanded. The Kaiser wants his empire, and Germany will have its day in the sun. We’ll get the support we need.”

  No one argues with the major. We have too much respect for him. And, besides, he’s got more on the line than any of us. Delivered with the mail were several issues of the Windhüker Nachrichten, one of which published an article claiming, “on good authority,” that the major is to be relieved of his command and court-martialed as soon as reinforcements arrive in the colony. Blamed for leading “the reckless attack on the Herero” at the slaughter of Owikokorero, the major, once heralded as a hero, is now apparently the scapegoat for the prolonged campaign.

  Throughout the camp, the men are indignant. After all we’ve endured, after all we’ve sacrificed, this unjust attack on our beloved leader is too much. With little support from home and too few men in the field, we’ve been set up to fail. And when failure comes, we get the blame.

  The scouting party returns later that day with news that the enemy may be getting ready to break through to the south of us, threatening our provision line. With still no news from the main division, the major decides to return to our old camp, which was easier to fortify. We will wait there for word from the main division.

  It’s with heavy hearts that we turn around. Morale is already low, and no one’s looking forward to three more days of marching. But my biggest worry is water. We had depleted the potable water at the old camp. The men are already weak and malnourished. Without a good source of water and fresh supplies, we’ll be in a desperate position. We take as much water as we can from this watering place, knowing it won’t last long.

  As we fall in line, I’m reminded of our losses. Where once we had a strong cavalry made up of the home guard and officers, we’re now led by about twenty men, riding on scrawny horses. The marines are divided into two companies, one of which marches between the little band of cavalry and the cannon. The long line of wagons, each with its team of twenty-four oxen, follows. The second company brings up the rear.