With Clements
Hekpoort,
September 5th, 1900.
We’ve stood to our nags (confound them!)
We’ve thought of our native land;
We have cussed our English brother,
(For he does not understand.)
We’ve cussed the whole of creation,
And the cross swings low for the morn,
Last straw (and by stern obligation)
To the Empire’s load we’ve borne.
Monday, September 3rd. Reveillé at three o’clock, and coming after a few days of welcome rest in the camp by the Pretoria Racecourse, a camp resembling a vast rubbish field with the addition of open latrines, we naturally felt more annoyed than when on the march, hence these idle rhymes. On Sunday, after a short Divine Service, at which our major presided, we had to fall in and draw remounts. Hence “Reveillé,” “Saddle up and stand to your horses!” I chose rather a good mount in the horse corral, but as the sergeants had the privilege of choosing from those we drew, I lost it, and so abandoned any intentions of trying to secure another good one. There is no attempt on these occasions to see that the right man has the right horse: it’s “Hobson’s choice.” Even at Maitland camp, where I drew my first mount, no such attempt was made, the consequence being that I, scaling about 13-st. or more with my kit on, and heaven only knows what with my loaded saddle, drew when my turn came a weak little mare, which I had to stick to, to our mutual disadvantage, while lighter men drew bigger and stronger horses. Only a few days ago I received amongst my mails a letter from my sister, who inquired, “How is your horse?” Which one? “Stumbles” is not, “Ponto” is not, “Juggernaut” is not, “Diamond Jubilee” is not, “Bête Noire” is not. My present one, which I have not named, is, and I sometimes wish he wasn’t. When I drew him at a venture, I vainly hoped he was not like other horses, especially that Argentine. Well, apart from stumbling and reverentially kneeling on most inopportune occasions, I have not much fault to find with him. To-day is our first day on this fresh jaunt (we are to join Clements), and already more than half the horses dished out to us seem played out. You see they have all passed through the Sick Horse Farm, and I presume are really convalescents. They dragged us along at the commencement of the day, and we had to drag them along at the end, which may sound like an equal division of labour, but which, in my opinion, it is not. However, to be very serious, our lives might have to depend upon these brutes at any moment, apart from the fact of our necks being perpetually in danger on account of their stumbling propensities. Still apart from the inconvenience of having to bury one, I fancy there would not be much concern on that count. We have halted at Rietfontein which is a mile or so from Commando Nek. Here is a large A.S.C. depôt, from which columns working in the district can draw supplies. It has been quite a treat to have tea by daylight.
Tuesday, September 4th. ‘Nother three o’clock reveillé! Passing by Commando Nek we were surprised at the difference since we were here about a month ago. Then the trees were bare, nearly all the veldt burnt and black, and the oat fields trodden down. Now the trees are wearing o’ the green, and the once blackened veldt has assumed a verdant and youthful appearance, while the oat fields remind one of home, almost. For this is the Krugersdorp District, which we like so well, though, alas, the orange groves are on the other side (north) of the Magaliesberg. A strange thing happened after passing our old camping ground (of about a month ago) at Commando Nek. Instead of recognising familiar landmarks and houses, everything seemed strange and new to me. Said the man on my left in the ranks, “There’s the farm where those Tommies got the porkers.” To which I remarked vacantly, “Oh!” Then, further on, “Haven’t the oats come on in that field?” Again, I helplessly “Er—yes.” Then, “I wonder if they’ve got any fowls left in that shanty over there?” I, dissembling knowledge no longer, at last observed, “Really I don’t understand it. I can’t remember this place a bit.” To which my neighbour replied, “Don’t you remember coming this way when we were leading those Argentine remounts?”
Those Argentine remounts! All was explained at last. Of course, I saw and remembered naught save those awful brutes.
We caught Clements up at ten o’clock—encamped to our joy—so here we are with “piled arms,” “saddles off,” and “horses picketed.” As we came into camp we heard once again the Mausers of the snipers afar off. We have rigged up a sun shelter and have just dined, our “scoff” (Kaffir for “grub”) being bread and bully beef.
Apropos:
First Yeoman: “I say, is this bully beef American?”
Second Yeoman: “No, ’Orse-tralian, I believe.”
Wednesday, September 5th.
“The peaches are a-blooming,
And the guns are a-booming,
And I want you, my honey,
Yus, I do.”
We had reveillé at a more Christian-like time this morning (4.30), and moved out as supports to our other troop (Devons), who were advance party. We number eighteen Sussex men, all told, in our ranks, and are led by Mr. Stanley, a Somerset I.Y. officer, who on our last trip was in charge of the Ross Gun Section, which consisted of two quick-firing Colt guns. After bare trees, dry veldt and dusty tracks, it is a real treat for one’s eyes to see this fine district assuming its spring garb. Through the bright green patches of oats and barley we rode, past peach trees and bushes in full bloom, sometimes through a hedge of them, the pink blooms brushing against one’s cheek. Then we came to a bend of the Crocodile River, with its rugged banks covered with trees and undergrowth, and the water rushing swiftly along between and over the huge rocks in its bed. This we forded at the nearest drift, the water reaching up to the horses’ bellies. The general idea was for us mounted troops to clear the valley, and the infantry the ridges of kopjes. We were soon being sniped at from the right and the left, by, I presume, numerous small parties of Boers, and after riding about a mile were dismounted behind a farmhouse, and took up a position on the banks of the Crocodile. The scene was truly idyllic. Below us the river in this particular place was placidly flowing, the various trees on its banks were bursting out in their spring foliage, and birds were twittering amongst them: indeed, one cheeky little feathered thing came and perched on a peach tree covered in pink blossom close by and piped a matin to me, and there was I, lounging luxuriously in the deep grass, a pipe in my mouth, a Lee-Enfield across my knees, and a keen eye on the range of kopjes opposite. Truly, the spring poet’s opportunity, but alas, beyond the few lines with which I have dared to head to-day’s notes, I could do naught in that line. Soon our artillery began throwing shrapnel on the top of the objectionable height, and, later, the Mausers began to speak a little further on, and that has been the day’s game. I don’t know our losses yet, but we have undoubtedly had some. Our crowd had a horse killed, of course. We had a good deal of visiting to do, calling at this farm and that, and inquiring if the “good man” was at home. This is the usual scene:
Farmhouse of a humble order. A few timid Kaffirs loitering around, also a few fowls and slack-looking mongrels. Gentleman in Khaki rides up, and in the door appear two or more round-faced women wearing headgear of the baby-bonnet mode, dirty-faced children in background.
G. in K.: “Where is your husband?”
Women: “Niet verstand.”
G. in K.: “Where is your brother?”
Women: “Niet verstand.”
G. in K.: “Is he on those kopjes, potting at us?”
Women: “Niet verstand.”
G. in K.: “Have many Boers been past here?”
Women: “Niet verstand.”
G, in K. (After more interrogatories and more “Niet verstands”): “Oh, hang it, good-bye.”
Women (in distance): “Niet verstand.”
Verily, the “niet verstand” or “no savvee” game is a great one out here.
(Later.) Our casualties were three Northumberland Fusiliers killed and eight wounded, one of our Fife comrades shot in the chest, also three Roughriders hit, and a fair percentage of horses knocked.
Thursday, September 6th.—Reveillé at four o’clock, and off at daybreak. We soon came into action, some of our fellows on the right flank getting it particularly hot. Our little lot wheeled and dismounted behind a farmhouse, and, wading through a field of waving green barley, under fire, took up a position amongst the growth on the near bank of the river, from which we let off at some sangars on the top of a kopje in front. After a while we returned to our horses, mounted, rode away to our right, crossed the river, dismounted behind a rise in the ground, and proceeded to occupy some kopjes nearer the enemy, who had retired. Some fine sangars were on the hill we occupied, and so we were saved the trouble of building any. The one I found myself in was a very comfortable and secure affair as regards rifle fire. As, of course, Mr. Boer does not show himself over much, we had not much to pot at, therefore I made myself as comfortable as possible on the shady side of the sangar, and pulled out one of my numerous pocket editions of Tennyson (recently acquired in Pretoria) and indulged in a good, though occasionally interrupted, read. To a stranger at the game, I should imagine that my behaviour at times would have appeared incongruous, for while perusing the “Lotos-Eaters” and “Choric Song,” the man on my right would now and again interrupt me with, “There are some, have a shot at ’em!” Whereupon I would arise and fire a round or so at the distant dots, and then sink down again and resume the sweet poesy, ignoring as much as possible the constant bangings of villainous cordite in my ears, right and left. Soon we moved on to another position, the Northumberlands taking up our old one. The next one was in a stone enclosure, which contained a large number of goats and kids. This was not so pleasant, as the sun was high, and the place odoriferous.
At about three we were relieved by a Northumberland picket, and returned under a sniping fire to where the camp had been pitched. Then the fun commenced. A rather distant bang, whis-sh! over our heads; and from amongst the infantry blanket shelters a cloud of earth spouted up, and a small batch of men cleared off from the vicinity of the explosion. It was amusing to see the niggers throw themselves into trenches by the roads and fields. Then came another and yet another shell, without any more effect than making a hole in a tent, and the men of No. 8 Battery Field Artillery (and No. 8 is a deuced smart Battery, by’r leave) dashed out from their lines, pushing and dragging their guns, while the “4.7 gentleman” began moving his long beak in the air as though sniffing for the foe. “Give ’em hell, boys!” we cried to the busy gunners, as they dashed by us, working at the wheels and drag-ropes, but the Naval man spoke first, “Snap—Bang!” and back the gun jumped in a cloud of smoke; and presently, far away, from the crest of the kopje under suspicion, a cloud of brown arose, and later came the crack of the explosion. Meanwhile the Boers went on pitching shells into our camp, and we got the order to retire behind a kopje with our horses till it was decided what to do with us. Having done this, the shelling soon ceased, and later we were taken back to camp, where we off-saddled, picketed our horses, and settled down to tea. And then bang! whish! crack!! bang! whish! towards us the enemy’s shells came again. They had got two guns in position, and were working them hard. We were getting some of our own back, for the shells we picked up were 15-pounder ones, of British make. Our Naval gun barked back viciously at them, and so did the field guns, but the enemy were firing with the red and dazzling setting sun, behind them, and shining directly in our fellows’ eyes, who were blazing apparently at poor old Sol, and cussing him and the wily Boer in a manner by no means ambiguous. I know not whether we did them any harm or not; certainly they shifted their positions once or twice. As regards ourselves, it seems beyond belief, no damage was done. The enemy could not even boast of the bag which the Americans achieved at Santiago—that famous mule.