“Just some helpless old hags,” he says.
A few of the officers confer on what to do with them. “They’re useless as prisoners,” one of the lieutenants says. “Might as well put them out of their misery.”
“Leave them be,” another officer calls down to the men searching the huts. I start to breathe a sigh of relief until he adds, “Burn them with the village. There’s no sense in wasting ammunition.”
The soldiers don’t even flinch at the order. Within minutes, they turn pieces of bush into torches and begin lighting the huts, including the one housing the women. The dry dung and branches catch quickly, sending up a rosy glow that stains the evening sky.
The killings bring back memories of the murder of the old couple in a similar village a few months ago. I had tried to block that incident from my mind, but today’s act vividly revives it. At the time, I excused the shooting of the couple as an isolated incident and chalked it up to the madness of the long torturous march through the barren veld. But there are no such excuses for today’s violence. The soldiers burned those women as casually as if they were burning trash.
I guess the horror I feel about the burning shows. That night in camp, Alexander claps me on the back. “This is war,” he says. “People die. Like it or not, we have to get used to it.”
I shake my head. “I’ve seen plenty of death. But this wasn’t death – it was murder. I hope I never get used to that.”
“You’re a Jew, right?” I nod my head slowly, waiting for the inevitable insult.
“I don’t hold that against you,” Alexander says quietly. “My family is Jewish. I converted when I was sixteen.”
I look at him in surprise.
“That’s another story.” He stretches his legs toward the fire. “What I mean is that this is no different than the Israelites’ conquest of the Promised Land. God told our forefathers to destroy all the inhabitants so they could dwell in the land in peace. They were not to spare the elderly, the women, or the children.”
I yawn tiredly. I’ve heard this excuse one too many times. “But the Germans already have a home. We don’t need to take someone else’s land.”
“Ahhh, but you’re wrong. God has richly blessed the Fatherland. We’re running out of land in Europe. So as we multiply, it is our divine duty to civilize and people new lands.”
The fervor of Alexander’s words shocks me, and I have no response. I revert to small talk. “So where are you from?” I ask lamely.
“Berlin. My father is a banker there.”
“You’re not following in his steps?”
Alexander laughs softly. It’s a hollow sound in the stillness of the night. “I’m the black sheep. Always have been. But after I converted, my family pretty much got used to me doing things my way. Besides, my brother is more than happy to continue in the family business.”
“Why did you convert?”
“At first, I suppose I wanted to be like my friends. And I recognized I could have more opportunities. But then...,” he pauses, staring into the fire. He shrugs uncomfortably. “I mean no offense, but converting just made sense – from a religious point of view.”
“So do you feel more German now?” I ask, thinking back to the conversation I had with Epenstein.
“I’ve always been German – just as you’re German. And I’m proud of it.” He stretches. “We have another hard day’s march tomorrow. We’d better turn in.”
I try to sleep, but the image of the burning village plays over and over in my mind. As I think about it, I admit, for the first time, that I’m not proud of being German.
THE WATERBERG
We’ve been camped at Ombatuatipiro for several days. Though we have plenty of provisions, the waterholes have run dry, and the men and oxen are restless with thirst. Good waterholes are a short trek away – at Hamakari – but our scouts say they’re heavily protected by the Herero. At this point, we’re willing to take our chances. We can die of thirst. Or we can die trying to get to water. At least we have a fighting chance with the water.
But General von Trotha holds us back. Hamakari stands between us and the Waterberg, the last refuge of the Herero. Once our other divisions are in place to the west and north, we’ll advance and force the natives deep into the waterless Omaheke to the east. The desert is to be their final executioner.
Ignoring my own thirst, I tend to several dehydrated men. “At least with no water, there’s no typhoid,” Alexander says. I try to laugh, but it takes too much effort.
“Look,” Arnold says, pointing to the northern horizon. “The heliograph is signaling.” I glance up in time to catch the bright flashes of light aimed at our camp.
“And over there!” Another orderly points to the western horizon. “The other divisions are ready.”
We don’t care that the news may mean battle. All we can think of is water.
The heliograph signals continue throughout the day, giving way to lantern signals as darkness falls. In the valley between us and the high ridge of the Waterberg, the whole of the Herero nation rests with its vast herds of cattle. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children. Their past and their future. I wonder what they must be thinking as they watch the lights blink from mountain to mountain.
While the general and officers plot battle strategy, the rest of us, driven by the desperate need for water, prepare to move. Men clean their guns. Fill their cartridge belts. Tend to the horses. Write what may be a last letter home. The medical staff is just as busy. Although the hospital wagons are mostly empty now, we know they could be filled with battle casualties tomorrow. We must be ready. As I check our supplies once again, I think of all the men who’d still be alive today had I had half of these medicines – and, of course, good water.
With nothing more to do, I write a quick postcard to Hanna. “We’re likely to see battle tomorrow. I hope it will be the one to end this campaign. I’m so tired – of death, of the endless marching through the desert, of being away from you. When I return home, I’ll never let you out of my sight.”
We all turn in early, shivering in the cold. No fires are to be lit. And no singing is permitted. As if we had the voice to sing! I see a shadow move, and someone whispers, “Say an extra Our Father tonight. Who knows if you’ll be able to tomorrow.”
“Comforting thought,” I mutter. “That will do wonders for morale.” I lie there, trying to sleep, but my deep thirst makes it impossible. Every time I doze off, I swallow, and the pain wakens me, so I lie there with images from the past few months flooding my mind. Wasted cattle decaying in a clearing. Valleys blazing with flames as the enemy tries to stop our advance. Waterholes brimming with the rotting carcasses of animals. It’s as if the Herero are telling us, “This is our land. If you try to take it, we’ll make sure that what’s left is not worth your effort.”
Finally on the threshold of sleep, I suddenly remember: It’s the first day of Elul, the month of repentance. And here I’m preparing for war.
Instead of the call of the shofar, I’m awakened shortly after midnight by the command to advance. We’re told we should reach the waterholes at dawn.
The Witboois, the sworn enemy of the Herero, ride ahead as our scouts. The cavalry goes next, followed by the artillery. The hospital and supply wagons keep a safe distance behind. We must be close enough to be of some good but far enough back to be out of harm’s way. Our advance is noisy – what with the horses snorting in the cold, the jolting of the wagon wheels, and the occasional cracking of a whip.
Just before dawn, we reach the broad, sandy riverbed of Hamakari. Thick brush separates the dried-up river from the waterholes. The wagons are ordered to remain here with the oxen harnessed – in case we need to make a hasty retreat. The elliptical balloon that marks the battle headquarters is quickly raised above General von Trotha’s wagon as the cavalry moves into the brush toward the water.
I wait quietly with the other surgeons and orderlies, thinking of nothing but slaking my thirst. At last, the morning
breaks as the sun makes its presence known. Its rays streak the sky with rosy stripes of light that intensify as the sun climbs over the eastern horizon. Its light transforms the rugged landscape, chasing away the dark shadows. Forgetting my thirst for one brief moment, I’m awed by the stark beauty of the setting. Instantly, I’m struck with guilt for thinking about beauty when we’re so set on destruction.
A gunshot shatters the morning peacefulness. And another. Followed by a torrent of shots and screams that splinter the air. The cavalry is under attack. My first thought is not of the wounded. Rather, it’s disappointment that the water, which is so near the animals can smell it, is so out of reach. For more than an hour, I hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, the hissing of grapeshot, the cries of dying men, the horrific shrieks of the Herero. But as I wait, all I can think about is how thirsty I am.
Finally, the troops get a few of our big guns in place and start firing them, along with the cannon, toward the invisible line of the enemy. The Herero swiftly clear a path for the cannon, moving to the sides to attack our men. Standing back from the fray, Trotha has the heliograph signal to the other units to begin the attack. No flashes of light respond.
The sun is high in the sky, and its heat is oppressive here in the riverbed where there’s no shade. The oxen bellow hoarsely for water, kicking up a thick cloud of dust that hovers over the clearing. The drivers struggle to keep the animals from surging forward toward the scent of the waterholes. We’re plagued by large flies, biting at our hands and through our white medical coats. Swatting away another fly, I look up, trying to get a sense of time. Through the dust, I see vultures circling, waiting for their feast of flesh.
The orderlies run toward the line to bring back the wounded. I help the other surgeons set up the operating tables and assemble our tools. All the time, we’re swatting and swearing at the swarms of flies. “Hardly the place to do surgery,” Alexander mutters.
With still no response from the other divisions, Trotha orders the artillery to open in full fire. The blasts thunder through my head, drowning out all other sound. I can see the surgeons’ mouths moving, but I hear no words. I can hardly think as my head throbs with the heavy percussion of the guns. The first of the casualties begin to arrive. I mechanically motion to the orderlies to lay them in the shade of a wagon flap. While some of the surgeons begin operating on an officer, I quickly examine the others the orderlies bring in. Most of them, including Captain Gansser, are already dead.
With nothing left to do here, I grab my bag and run toward the line with Arnold. More of the men may survive if they can get medical attention earlier. Arnold leads me to a man who’s bleeding from several wounds. I kneel down and try to stanch the blood, even though I know it’s futile. The white blanket Arnold had laid him on is already stained red. The soldier tries to speak and a wild look enters his eyes. Then he falls back limply. He stares sightlessly at the sky. As I close his eyes, I wonder how many more men I’ll usher through death’s door.
Arnold awkwardly lifts the man to carry him back to the clearing, but I move on. A small Herero child lies wounded next to the cannon. His thin bare arm braced against the wheel, he looks straight into my eyes in a silent plea for help. As I start toward the child, Major Stühlmann stops me. “Let the little worm die,” he says during a lull in the firing. “You heard the general’s orders. Nothing living is to be spared.”
I reluctantly drop back to help Arnold carry the fallen soldier. The big guns are silent, but bullets continue to whizz through the bush. As we approach the general’s wagon, I hear someone shouting, “We’ve got men dying of thirst. And the animals can’t hold out much longer.”
The general’s response is lost in wild yelling and another volley of shots that rips through the clearing. Arnold and I drop the dead soldier and dart to the bush for cover. I quickly remove my white coat; it’s too visible a target. I watch helplessly as the hospital wagon is riddled with a hailstorm of bullets. The surgeons grab their guns and hit the ground. A deep blood stain spreads across the back of the senior surgeon.
Everyone in the clearing – from the general to the drivers and secretaries – throw themselves to the ground, firing toward the attackers. The Herero edge closer through the bush, taunting us and constantly shooting. We answer with a barrage of our own.
At last, the enemy retreats. As the officers regroup in the center of the camp, I join the rest of the medical staff. The senior surgeon has been shot through the shoulder, but he’ll live – barring any complications. We quickly move the dead and wounded into the wagons when the order comes to advance. We’re taking the waterholes!
Driven by thirst, the men and the oxen surge forward, determined to break through to the water. Like wild creatures, the troops hurl themselves toward the Herero, who fire and run.
Shouting curses and continuing to shoot, our men push through to the clearing with the wagons close on their heels.
Late in the evening, we form our wagenburg around the waterholes as small parties of Herero warriors shoot at us from the cover of the bush. Some of the troops form an outer perimeter, holding the enemy back, while others cut the spiky branches from thorn trees to erect a stockade. The oxen bellow for more water. But the holes, which have watered the Herero herds, will soon run dry if we don’t carefully ration the water. The earth, trampled and overgrazed by the Herero cattle, offers the horses and oxen no sustenance.
It’s well past midnight when I finish my last surgery. I look at the wounded lying on the ground and shake my head. Many of them will be dead by daylight. I shiver in the cold. Again, we have no fires. The orderlies, lanterns in hand, creep from patient to patient, offering them a precious sip of water.
I’m exhausted when I finally pull my blanket around me, but I know there will be no sleep. The Herero continue to fire at us, their guns flashing continually in the dark. And occasionally, our men fire back. At long last, the guns fall silent. The silence is more frightening than the shooting. What are they planning? Are we to be overrun in the night?
In the distance, I can hear the confused lowing of large herds of cattle and another sound like thousands of feet running. The sounds grow fainter, moving away from us toward the glow of a large fire that lights the eastern horizon. Too tired to sort it out, I wait listlessly for morning.
As the sun shines on a new day, our scouts return with surprising news. The Herero have fled. The scouts bring with them a young emaciated Herero woman, who was too weak to keep up with the tribe. Trotha calls for Manuel Timbu, a Cape Bastard, to translate as he interrogates the starving woman. A few minutes later, Timbu leads the woman, her “Christian” dress in tatters, from the general’s tent, followed by a young soldier.
“Let’s see what you’re made of,” the soldier says, handing his gun with its attached bayonet to Timbu.
The native shakes his head. “I could never do such a thing to a woman,” he says. “Why not let her go? What harm can she do?”
“You heard the general.” The soldier laughs. “Here, let me show you what a good German can do.” He pulls the woman away from Timbu and, without warning, drives his bayonet through her. He laughs again as her body goes limp. He removes the bayonet, letting the woman crumple to the ground. Waving the bayonet, dripping with the woman’s blood, in front of Timbu’s face, the soldier jeers, “See, that’s how it’s done.”
I watch, stunned, as the men who had gathered for the spectacle turn away with grins on their faces. The woman’s body is left to rot. “How can a man do such a thing?” I ask myself. “And the others, how could they just stand by?” Then I hear another voice in my head, “You were there watching, too. And what did you do?” I feel my stomach rising to my throat. I’m going to be sick.
The general storms out of his tent, cursing the Herero. Seeing their escape as his failure, he insists that we should pursue them immediately. Captain Max Bayer reminds him that we have heard nothing from the other divisions. Besides, our men and animals have reached the limits o
f their strength. We can’t go on today.
So the troops rest. But there’s no rest for the medical staff as we tend to the sixty men who were wounded in yesterday’s battle. They lie on their blankets on the bare ground; there’s no grass for even makeshift mattresses. Although we’ve stretched a tent canvas above them, the winter sun beats through it, heating the ground and anything that touches it. And the flies are everywhere, creeping into the men’s wounds, resting in their crusted eyes, even lodging in the corners of their dry mouths. The orderlies patiently move from man to man, picking away the insects, only to have more swarm in as soon as they move on.
At noon, news finally arrives from the other divisions. Two have defeated the enemy. The third held its position but suffered heavy losses. They confirm that the Herero – all 60,000 plus their enormous herds – are fleeing toward the Omaheke. But Trotha doesn’t see it as a victory. He dwells on the possibility that they may regroup, what’s left of them, at the last waterholes before the desert.
While the general plots how to finally end the threat of the Herero, several of our troops continue to gather fallen comrades from the bush, piling them unceremoniously beside a tree in the middle of the camp. Hooded vultures, which have already feasted on the corpses, circle high above us in the sky. A few perch in the tree, their bald pink heads turned brazenly toward us as they wait for a chance to feed. Peter shoots at one. Squealing loudly, they fly off. Within minutes, they’re back.
“We need shomrim to watch over the bodies,” Alexander says. But we have no men to spare to guard the dead.
In the afternoon, our spent oxen and horses paw furiously at the dirt, searching for food. All they find is dust. Their sad bellows and whinnies fade as they lose the strength to complain about their hunger and thirst. The stench of death and dried manure is stifling. As I look around the camp at the despondent men and the starving animals, I wonder, “If this is victory, how much worse is defeat?”
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 29