SS Mendi: The tale of a Black soldier
AN EDITED excerpt from Dancing the Death Drill by Fred Khumalo – the novel inspired by and based on the sinking of the SS Mendi by Fred Khumalo.
On 28 December 1916, Pitso, Tlali and many other men from Bloemfontein and surrounding areas were at the train station, ready for their journey to Cape Town.
There was much excitement, and much shedding of tears as wives and girlfriends hugged their loved ones for the umpteenth time. Pitso kept to himself, throwing an occasional word into the conversation that swirled around him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure. Christine was standing there, staring at him. She started walking slowly towards him. She was crying. Conversations stopped. People stared.
She said, “Pitso, whatever happens to you over there, remember this: I love you. It’s a pity we are being separated during a very sensitive stage of our relationship. I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I will always love you.”
He merely looked at her. When he turned to leave, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed his lips passionately. Then she let go.
She said, “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” [It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country]. Then she turned on her heel and walked away quickly.… There were already other men from other towns inside the train. The men on board were from Pretoria, Johannesburg, Springs, Ficksburg and many other towns that Pitso had never heard of. They were happy in their shared camaraderie, happy to be in the company of other recruits just like them – young, ignorant, excited, scared, uncertain but committed to the cause of fighting the evil German Kaiser, or Mkize, as they had chosen to call him. “At the risk of getting my nose punched in again,” Tlali asked as the train chugged on, “what exactly makes you want to go and fight? I mean this from the bottom of my heart.” “The money is good.” “I know the money is good, but with you it seems to be beyond the money.”
“My father makes me want to go to fight.”
“You are speaking in riddles. You’ve told me before that your father went missing when you were but a piccaninny. You once said you hated him …”
“Hate is a strong word. Hatred is a strong emotion. I must have been angry when I said I hated him. It’s just that I love him so much I hate him. I hate him for not being there when I needed him as a child – to guide me, to advise me. Right now, I am going to a war I don’t fully understand. But I feel I have to fight. I know he fought in the Anglo-Boer War, but did not see the war to its end. He ran away.
“All I know is that I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to run away from responsibility; I don’t want to run away from anything.”
As they rode, the men aboard the train began to feel superior to the rest of the South African populace. They were the Chosen Ones, the Anointed, the Untouchables. They could change things.
When the train pulled into Worcester station, the recruits found a stall packed with grapes. They pounced on the cornucopia from the Cape, creating a mess. Some even dragged the boxes into the train. But the debauchery ended when the train finally arrived in Cape Town.…
“Holy Modimo!’ Tlali exclaimed. ‘Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes, sir,’ said Pitso. ‘That, there, my friend is the sea. We’re going to be floating in that for the next month or two, without ever seeing the land. If we ever see it again.”
The recruits craned their necks, to get a better look at this huge, endless body of water.
As soon as they got off the train, they were met by a group of white officers who escorted them to waiting trucks.… From the station, the trucks drove along the coast…
They drove around like that for more than an hour. They ended up at a place called the Rosebank Showgrounds where they would be stationed until their final departure for Europe. Dancing The Death Drill, published by Umuzi Random House, now available at bookstores, R230.
“My father makes me want to go to fight