Other than the cracking of the whips, the creaking of the wagons, and the rhythmic cry of “Wörk! Wörk, Osse!” we go in silence. My wagon shifts violently as it drops into a shallow riverbed, which looks as if it’s been dry for months. The corporal, who has been delirious ever since I amputated his arm, groans loudly. This isn’t going to be an easy march.
When we camp that night, someone remembers that tomorrow is Easter. The reminder does little to cheer the men. Instead, they sit quietly in their private reveries of home. I’m about to turn in when a shout goes up. Signals. On the southwest horizon. Five more rockets explode in flashes of red and white. Help is at last on the way. “I just hope they get here in time,” one weary marine mutters.
Before dawn, several of the men build an Easter fire in the middle of the camp. As they gather around the fire to pray and sing a hymn, I check on my patients, preparing them for another day of hard travel. I worry about the corporal. His fever has broken, but he’s still delirious. There’s nothing I can do for him but watch and wait.
As soon as the sun rises, we break camp, falling in line again behind what’s left of the cavalry. Stretching out four kilometers, our line slowly moves down the windy narrow path that cuts through the dense brush. Lulled by the slow motion of the wagon, I doze off, daydreaming of springtime in Germany. Screams of alarm pierce my dreams, jolting me to consciousness. A young man runs by, breathlessly shouting, “The rear is being attacked!” Since the hospital wagons are in the middle of the line, I can see nothing, but I hear gunshots in the distance. An officer rides back, urging us to hurry. There’s a clearing up ahead that we can fortify.
Within minutes, we reach the clearing. The hospital wagons are pulled into the camp, while the rest are drawn into a wagenburg. The men take to the ground, using the wagons as cover as they fire at the enemy. The major, surrounded by his officers, stands calmly in the center, watching as some of the men from the rear company, who had been forced into the brush when the shooting started, make it to the safety of the camp. Many of them are wounded. Those who can still shoot are directed to fills gaps in our barricades. The cannon is pulled into position and fired at the enemy; its shells explode into the sandy earth. Wounded marines drag themselves close to the cannon for protection as the enemy pushes ever closer.
The other surgeons and I direct the orderlies to move the injured men from the outer wagons to the center of the clearing where they’ll be safer. Then, crouching low, we check the men who have made it in from the bush. The sick and wounded outnumber the marines who are still able to shoot.
I move toward a man who’s trying desperately to stanch the bleeding in his arm. From the corner of my eye, I see a Herero, dressed in a uniform of the home guard, pressing in. Without thinking, I raise my pistol and shoot. He falls to the ground with a bullet hole in his head. “Good shooting, Doctor,” the marine says. He tries to smile, but it’s a feeble effort.
“Shhhhh,” I tell him. I have no time to think about what I’ve just done. “Let me see that arm.” It’s obvious he’s lost a lot of blood. I tie bandages tightly around his upper arm, stopping the flow. “That will have to do for now. I’ll have to remove the bullet once this shooting stops.”
“Am I going to lose my arm?” he asks.
“I think we can save it – as long as there’s no infection,” I reassure him. I move on to the next fallen soldier as the artillery fires again, releasing its load of shrapnel into the enemy.
Two hours later, the Herero warriors finally retreat. I scan the clearing filled with injured and dying troops. My work is just beginning. I stand up wearily and look over at Geier, who’s tending to a marine’s busted leg. He glances up and nods in awareness of all the men who need our attention.
While we take care of the injured, some of the marines scour the bush for any survivors. They bring back thirty-two bodies but no wounded. The dead, some of whom have been mutilated by either the enemy or vultures, are placed in a semicircle under a large camelthorn tree, awaiting burial. Several of the men want to pay their final respects, but Captain Dannhauer turns them away. It’s better they be spared this sight, he says. He doesn’t want to turn the dead into a spectacle or demoralize the troops.
As the sun sets, the bodies are lowered into a common grave. Twenty men fire over the grave. The old major, as calm and compassionate as ever, speaks of the ultimate sacrifice the fallen troops made for the Fatherland. He reminds the living of the message of Easter, that death has no hold over the righteous. “These men,” he says, “have purified their souls through the blood they shed today. They shall reign in Heaven with the saints. But here on earth, they will be remembered as heroes who answered the call of God and country.”
I return to the wounded. Some of them are talking softly. Others are delirious or unconscious. A few are gasping their last breaths. I sigh hopelessly, watching as Arnold and the other orderlies feed the men what little food and water we have. There will be more bodies to bury before we leave this place. I’m sure of it.
Exhausted, I stretch out by the fire, staring into the flames while trying to make some sense of the day. I should write to Hanna to assure her I’m all right. With the underwater cable connecting Swakopmund to Europe, I’m sure the papers will soon be filled with sensationalized stories of today’s battle. But I’m too tired to think clearly, let alone write. As my eyes grow heavy with sleep, the face of the man I shot looms before me. I killed a man today. I tremble at the memory. “I’m sorry,” I tell the man. “But it was either you or me. I have a wife and son back home.”
“This is my home,” he tells me sadly. “And I have a family, too.”
I spread my hands in a helpless gesture.
“This is the land of my fathers,” he says. “You’re trespassing. No one asked you to come here.”
Papa’s weary face now dances in the flames. “How can I give you my blessing to kill strangers who have never harmed you?” he asks me. “He was only protecting his home. And what were you fighting for? The foolish hope that someday the ‘Fatherland’ will embrace you as one of its own? Yaakov, the price is too high if it demands your soul.”
I sit up, trying to rid myself of Papa’s accusing glare and my own guilt. The fire has died down, and the darkness of night is giving way to the grayness of early morning. It’s pointless to try to sleep again. I stand and stretch. With the visions of my dreams still haunting me, I go to check on my patients.
A few didn’t survive the night. The corporal is burning with fever again. And Karl, who was shot in the abdomen, is conscious but barely hanging on. If we could stay put another day or two, he might make it. But fearing another attack, the major wants to move on. The dead are buried quickly. As the orderlies load Karl into a hospital wagon already filled with sick and injured men, he attempts a feeble grin. “Beats marching,” he says.
I walk alongside the wagon, trying to close my ears to the pain-filled groans when a wheel strikes against a rock and jolts heavily. It’s going to be another long, hard day of travel. As we leave the camp, I take one last look at the fresh graves under the thorn tree. How many more will we have to dig as our payment for this scrap of land?
TYPHOID
I check on Karl when we stop at midday. He manages to sip a little of the foul water, but the effort takes most of his strength. The corporal groans nearby in his continuing stupor. And Peter, the young man who was shot in the arm, winces in pain. He refuses to lie down. “I can sit, Doctor. But those men can’t,” he says, nodding toward the men who are in worse shape than he is.
I look in on the men again when we take another break late in the afternoon. Karl lies motionless, his mouth open and his eyes set. At first glance, I think he’s dead, but then I notice the slight rising and sinking of his dirty blanket. He’s still breathing, barely. I pat his head and move on.
As I start to examine Peter’s wound, he motions toward a dazed man sitting on the wagon chest. “He’s been acting really strange, Doctor. He says he can’t
feel his feet or knees. And he’s hot one minute, and the next, he’s shivering with cold.”
I check the man’s pulse, noting the big drops of sweat beading his forehead. “He’s the twelfth in seven days,” I mumble to myself.
When we finally reach our old campsite that night, I discuss the symptoms I’ve been seeing with the other surgeons. They’ve seen the same symptoms. “I think it’s typhoid,” I tell them.
They nod in agreement. “It’s to be expected – what with the water the men have been drinking,” Geier says. “But there’s not much we can do about it without the proper medicine and clean water.”
“If it’s typhoid, we’re in for a long epidemic and a lot of deaths,” one of the other surgeons whispers.
We decide to speak to the major about the situation, but otherwise, we’ll keep our suspicions to ourselves, at least for a while. There’s no sense in spreading panic in the camp.
We work late into the night, caring for the sick and wounded. Since we don’t have enough cots for all the sick, the orderlies assemble makeshift mattresses, stuffing folded tent canvases with dried grass. Just as I’m about to leave to get a few hours of sleep, another man limps in, pale as death. He’s burning with fever.
“I’ll tend to him,” the surgeon on duty tells me. “Get some sleep. You can relieve me in a few hours.”
I want nothing more than sleep, but I know I must write to Hanna. I scrawl a quick message, assuring her I’m all right. “Please forgive my tardiness in writing. The camp is filled with sick and injured men who need constant attention. Seventeen wounded and fourteen sick, with more succumbing to fever every day. Yet still we march. Although my letters are few, my thoughts are filled with you and home. I wish I had never left. Please tell Papa he was right. He will understand. Give Papa and David a kiss for me. I will sleep tonight dreaming that you’re in my arms once again.”
When I report to the field hospital in the morning, I learn Karl has died. I look over at his mattress, already filled with another man, and wonder how many more will follow. I push his death from my thoughts as I examine two new patients. They have no pain, but they’re exhausted and feverish. Arnold scrambles to make space for them while trying to keep some separation between those who are wounded and those who may have typhus. While the wounded show some spirit, the sick ones lie in apathetic silence, as if they’ve been stunned.
Every day, more men show signs of the fever. With no more room in the hospital wagons, the major arranges for several canvases to be assembled to form one long tent. The other surgeons and I are so busy caring for our patients, we’re oblivious to the daily drills in the rest of the camp or the comings and goings of scouting parties. All we know is that no new provisions have arrived and there’s hardly enough water to boil. The most we can do for the sick is make them as comfortable as possible and keep them away from the marines who are still well.
Once again, yesterday mingles with tomorrow as I lose track of time. My days and nights are an endless round of taking care of the ill. There’s little time to dream of home or to worry about whether I’ll succumb to the fever. By now, many of the wounded also have developed symptoms of typhoid, reducing their chances of survival. When the fever enters its second stage, the news that typhus has hit the camp spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a general malaise that settles over all of us as we mechanically go through the motions of living.
As I head into the hospital tent for evening rounds, I’m almost overcome by the stench of diarrhea. The orderlies try to keep up with the mess, but it’s a futile exercise. In the distance, I hear a few men singing In Strassburg on the Rampart, a ballad about a young soldier so overcome with longing for the Fatherland that he deserts and pays for it with his life. The last stanza drifts mournfully over the camp:
“O King of Heaven, Lord! Take my poor soul away. Take it to you in Heaven. Let it be with you forever, and do not forget me!”
Wrapped in melancholy, the camp falls silent. In the distance, the jackals howl, lured by the smell of death.
I finish my rounds the next day by checking on the corporal. He’s been unconscious for several days, so I’m surprised when he opens his eyes in a bit of recognition. “Doctor,” he whispers weakly, “bury me with my arm.”
I start to protest, to reassure him that he’ll live. But the look of death in his eyes stops me. It’s too late for optimistic lies. His hand grips my arm and then falls back against the cot. Hearing the too-familiar death rattle, I gently close his eyes. I motion to Arnold to take care of the body. We had already buried his arm near another waterhole. Now we must lay the corporal himself to rest.
I sit by the fire tonight, feeling as if I’ve been touched by too much death. I try to count the number of men we’ve buried, to remember their names, to picture their faces. But I’m lost in the effort.
We continue to wait for the main division. Thankfully, the Herero haven’t attacked again. But more and more of our men are falling sick. The oppressive daytime heat, the sudden chill of the night, and the lack of food and water are doing the enemy’s work. With more than a fourth of the men ill, we’ve now outgrown the makeshift hospital tent. Many of the sick, dressed in their filthy uniforms, lie in rows on the bare ground. A tent canvas, supported by long stakes, stretches like a roof above them, offering some protection from the sun.
The marines who are still able to function are so lethargic that there’s little talk. “What’s the use” has become the unspoken camp motto. Unfortunately, it’s becoming my motto, too. Although I look at Hanna’s picture every day, it’s been awhile since I’ve written to her. I know I should, but I don’t want to worry her with my despair, which I’m sure would shade anything I write. And what would I tell her?
My life is nothing but death and deprivation. Each evening, a few more bodies are laid to rest in the gray earth, the guns fire a final farewell, and the dirt is shoveled over the corpses. The gravediggers barely have the energy to make crude crosses and drag piles of brambles to protect the graves from scavenging animals.
The only sounds after the daily funerals come from the native drivers, who keep to themselves in a distant corner of the camp. Unmindful of our losses, they joke and laugh under the trees. Tonight, they’re singing a chorus they learned from the missionaries. But it’s not the time for music. An officer calls to them to hold their tongues. “Will jelle slap!” he hollers.
It’s as silent as a tomb.
* * * * *
The major, who’s a frequent visitor at the hospital, and several of the officers meet with the surgeons to discuss the situation. Nearly two-thirds of our officers and a third of the men are dead, wounded, or sick. And with typhus in the camp, those numbers are bound to grow. We don’t hold back on the grimness of our predicament.
“It takes about a month for typhoid to run its course,” Geier says. “That means the first men to get sick are about halfway through it. But we still have men in the earliest stages, and more are coming down with the fever every day. And there are likely to be relapses. It could be months before this ends – that is if we have good water and better food. And protection from the weather.”
“Our orders are to hold this post,” the major says, “but without water, this is a death camp.”
One officer suggests moving forward to find another waterhole.
“That would be suicide,” Captain Dannhauer says. “Even though the Herero seem to have retreated from the war for now, we don’t have enough able marines to fend off an attack should Maharero change his mind.”
The major nods in agreement. “We no longer have a fighting army. This is a transport of sick soldiers, and we must act accordingly.” He makes plans to retreat to a better watering place. We break camp the next day. The severely wounded and sick are loaded into the wagons.
A few who are too ill to march but have the stamina to ride are placed on the worn, rough horses. The rest of us march. It’s a slow, torturous journey.
A few hours into the m
arch, one of the sick men screams out deliriously and jumps from the wagon, landing on a few of the men marching behind it. Before anyone can restrain him, he runs, shrieking madly, into the bush. A few marines wearily give chase, but they return empty-handed. To prevent further incidents, the captain orders guards to surround each wagon. So onward we march.
That night, I kneel beside a delirious patient to check his pulse. He jams a gun barrel against my ribs. His face, contorted by fever and pain, is inches from mine. “Back, you devil!” he shouts. “I’m going to send you straight to hell where you and all your kind belong.”
Quelling the terror that threatens to paralyze me, I talk to him calmly, like a mother to a small child. “It’s all right, Bernhard. It will be better soon. You just need to rest.” I slowly reach for his gun. “Nobody is going to hurt you. Just trust me.”
The anger in his eyes gives way to confusion as I take the gun from him.
I pull Arnold and the other orderlies aside. “We can’t have that happen again. Next time it might not turn out so well.”
“Should we take all their guns away?” Arnold asks.
I shake my head. “Only from those who are crazed. The others may need their guns for protection.”
The next day, three of the sick die. We bury them, with little ceremony, in the bush. As we start to move on, one of the men in the ranks shoots wildly around him, screaming about a Herero ambush. Fortunately, no one is hurt.
A few days later, we finally reach a good water supply at an abandoned mission station. “There should be enough water here to wait out this cursed illness,” the major tells the medical staff. “Do what you have to do to set up a hospital ward. The healthy men will camp up on that hill.” He points to a small rise overlooking the station. “We can protect you from there. With any luck, the separation will keep the fever from spreading.”
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 27