Part 4

If any one on reading the above thinks the writer "unpatriotic" he can only say that many British soldiers serving their Queen and country are "unpatriotic" in the same way. I hold no brief for the Boers, and I feel sure that here and there one may find an unmitigated scoundrel in their ranks who would fire on white flags, loot houses and use explosive bullets. On the other hand wounded and captured soldiers have repeatedly testified to the great kindness shown them by the enemy. In short, I have invariably found soldiers more generous and fair towards the enemy, and less disposed to blackguard them recklessly and unjustly, than newspaper writers and readers. Men who have faced the Boers have learnt to respect their courage and devotion, and I feel sure that British officers and soldiers deprecate much of the atrocity talk anent foemen so worthy of their steel, and however little they may sympathise with some portions of Dean Kitchin's sermon, they would at any rate desire to support his wish that the "quarrel should be raised to the level of a gentlemen's quarrel". Quite recently Lord Methuen spoke like an honourable and chivalrous British soldier when he declared that he "never wished to meet a braver general than Cronje and had never served in a war where less vindictive feelings existed between the two opposing armies than in this."

One more word on a kindred topic and we will leave criticism alone! The tone adopted by some sections of the Colonial and even British Press with respect to the religious feeling of the Boers is very painful. Some correspondents have described with evident glee how Boer prayer-meetings have been broken up by Lyddite shells. I feel sure that no British General would think for a moment of deliberately shelling any body of the enemy assembled for prayer, and the vulgarity and wickedness of such paragraphs would certainly not commend itself to the best sentiment of the British army. Again and again the Boers are described in the Press as "canting hypocrites" or their thanksgivings to God as "sanctimonious". What right have we as Christians to bring such wholesale charges against our Christian enemies? Several thousand burghers advanced from Jacobsdal to reinforce Cronje, and as it marched the entire force sang the Old Hundredth in unison. There is something splendid and majestic in such a spectacle as this. Let us as Englishmen fight our best against these men and defeat them thoroughly, but do not let us sneer at their religious enthusiasm!

On December 10th, as we were standing on a siding at De Aar, a telegram, arrived ordering us to leave for Modder River in the morning. We were delighted at the prospect of getting rid of our enforced inaction at De Aar. The air was full of rumours about an impending attack on Cronje's position, and we fully expected to be in time for the fight and probably to be employed as stretcher-bearers during the battle. Alas! our hopes were all in vain. Next day, some miles below Modder River, our engine with its tender suddenly left the metals. The stoker jumped off, but the engine fortunately kept on the top of the embankment and nobody was hurt. We none of us knew how or why the accident had occurred, but one of the officials suspected very strongly that the rails had been tampered with.

At any rate, there we were within a few miles of a big fight, off the metals and quite helpless! We were all perfectly wild with vexation and disappointment. But up flew a wire to Modder River for a gang of sappers with screwjacks. Pending the arrival of their assistance I climbed up to the top of a neighbouring kopje with a lot of Tasmanians. From this point the flashes of the guns above Modder River were visible, and the dull boom of Lyddite was borne to our ears. Methuen's artillery was still doing its best to avenge or retrieve the disaster of the early morning. The sappers at length arrived. We all helped--pushing and digging and lifting--and at length after several hours' delay steamed off to Modder River, too late for anything, except to wait for the morning and the wounded. We knew by this time that at 3:30 that morning the Highland Brigade had made a frontal attack on the Magersfontein lines and had been repulsed with terrible loss. The accounts which were vaguely given of the disaster were frightful, but accurate details were still lacking. Yes, here we were within four miles of the nearest point of Cronje's lines and we did not know half as much about the fight as people in Pall Mall 7000 miles away!

On 12th of December I woke at four. The sun was just beginning to rise and the raw chill of the night had not yet left the air. In the grey light a long string of ambulance waggons was moving slowly towards the camp from the battle-field. Parallel to the line of waggons a column of infantry was marching northwards, perhaps to reinforce some of our outlying trenches against a possible Boer attack. I shall long remember the sight--the column of dead and wounded coming in, the living column going out, and scarcely a sound to break the silence.

The wards of the train were all ready for the wounded, so I went off with a couple of buckets to replenish our water supply. Wounded men are generally troubled with thirst, and the washing of their hands and faces always refreshes them greatly. I found the station tap, however, guarded by a sentry; no water was to be drawn for the use of the troops, as the pipes--so it was said--came from Modder River, which was contaminated by the Boer corpses.

We were soon busy with the wounded Highlanders and well within an hour we had safely placed some 120 men in our bunks, and some on the floor. I am afraid the poor soldiers often suffered agony when they were lifted in or rolled from the stretchers on to the bunks. It was sometimes impossible to avoid hurting a man with, say, a shattered thigh-bone and a broken arm in thus changing his position. We however did our best and lifted them with the utmost care and gentleness, but they often, poor fellows, groaned and cried out in their cruel pain.

At 6 P.M. we saw the funeral of sixty-three Highlanders--all buried in one long trench close to the line. No shots were fired over the vast grave, but tears rolled down many a bronzed cheek and the bagpipes played a wild lament. Surely there is no music like this for the burial of young and gallant men. The notes seem to express an almost frenzied access of human sorrow!

Soon after this my old Sudan acquaintance, Frederick Villiers, passed through the train. He did not recognise me in my uniform and I did not make myself known to him as he was with an officer and I was only an orderly. I wonder if he remembers that dreadful night, 31st August, 1898, when we lay side by side in the desert at Sururab, soaked to the skin from a tropical downpour, and, to make his misery complete, he was stung in the neck by a large scorpion.

We ran down to Orange River with our first load of wounded men, and just as we were crossing the sappers' pontoon bridge over the Modder a trolly or small waggon broke loose and rushing down the incline in front met our engine and was broken into matchwood. Most of our cases on this first run were "severe" or "dangerous". Some of the men had no less than three bullet wounds, and several were still living whose heads had been pierced by bullets. During a former journey, after Belmont, poor ---- of the Guards lived for several days with a bullet through his brain; he was apparently unconscious or semi-conscious and struggled so desperately to remove the bandages from his head that it took three orderlies to hold him down. When he died the wounded soldier next him burst into tears.

Amongst some cases peculiarly interesting from a medical point of view was that of a Highlander who had three of his fingers shot off with the result that his arm and side were paralysed; in another case a bullet tore its way through and across the crown of a soldier's head and caused paralysis of the opposite side of the body. Another man had, so it was said, been hit on the shoulder; the bullet passed right through his body piercing his lungs and intestines and coming out at the thigh. Yet, strange to say, the poor fellow was in excellent spirits and complained only of slight pain in the abdomen.

There was one death at Magersfontein which seemed especially painful to ourselves. It was that of a young officer in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders who, after the fight on the Modder, came into our train and had a kindly word for every one of his wounded men; he walked along the wards shaking hands with them and giving them little money presents as he passed. His voice was full of sympathy, and at length he broke down utterly in his compassion for some of their terrible wounds. His tears did him credit, and we heard with genuine sorrow that he had fallen at Magersfontein. So good a man was indeed worthy of a longer life and a kindlier fate.

Almost all the wounds inflicted by the Mauser bullets seemed to be quite clean and healthy, with no signs of suppuration. It has been suggested that the satisfactory condition of such wounds is partly due to a species of cauterisation produced by the heat of the bullet. But I hardly think this can be so, for it is extremely doubtful if a bullet ever gets hot enough to cauterise flesh. I once picked up a spent Martini bullet which dropped within a yard or two of where I was standing; it was quite warm but not nearly hot enough to hurt my bare hand. A Mauser bullet fired at a fairly close range, say, 500 yards, travels at such a tremendous velocity that it generally splinters any bone it meets; on the other hand at long ranges--1,000 yards and upwards--the bullet frequently bores a clean little hole through the opposing bone and thus saves the surgeon a great deal of trouble.

The wounds from shell fire were not numerous in our wards. It seems likely that if a one-pounder shell from the Maxim-Nordenfeldt hits a man it is pretty sure to kill him. Some of the wounded men told me how terrible it was to hear the cries of a comrade ripped to pieces by this devilish missile.

The condition of the Highlanders' legs was terrible. Many of the poor fellows lay in the open for hours--some of them from 4 A.M. to 8 P.M.--and the back of their legs was, almost without exception, covered with blisters and large burns from the scorching sun. Very many of those who had escaped bullet wounds could not, I should think, have marched ten miles to save their lives. The Highland Light Infantry wore trousers and their legs were all right. How much longer are we going to clothe our Highland regiments in kilts on active service? Every man I spoke to was dead against their use in a subtropical campaign like the present one. Besides, even as it is, our men have to put up with a compromise in the matter of kilts which makes their retention almost ridiculous, i.e., in order to screen his gay attire from the keen eyes behind the Mauser barrels every Highlander wears over the tartan a dingy apron of khaki. The war pictures we occasionally see in illustrated papers of Scotch regiments charging with flying sporrans are probably drawn in England. Even when the apron is used, the khaki jacket, the tartan kilt and the white legs offer a good mark when the wearer is lying on the ground. At Omdurman I stood with the Seaforths and Camerons in the firing line and I noticed that they appeared to lose more than any other battalion.

On arriving at Orange River we carried our load of wounded to the base hospital. I wish some of those well-meaning enthusiasts in Trafalgar Square who clamoured for war could have viewed the interior of these hospital tents and seen the poor twisted forms lying on the ground in every direction. What a stupid and brutal thing war is! Certainly the alleged "bringing out of our nobler qualities" is dearly purchased! If a superior national type is the outcome of all this death and pain and misery, War, like Nature, seems at any rate utterly "careless of the single life"!

The battle of Magersfontein has been frequently described in the Press and the main outlines of the fight are already well known to the public. The Highland Brigade, consisting of the Black Watch, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, Seaforths and Highland Light Infantry, had dinner on Sunday at 12. They then marched from 2 to 7.30 P.M., when they bivouacked. They advanced again at 11 P.M. in quarter column through the darkness, using ropes to keep the direction and formation intact. At 3.30 the order to extend had just been given when a murderous fire was suddenly poured into the Brigade from the first line of Boer trenches at the foot of a large kopje. Our men had already seen two red lanterns burning at either extremity of this entrenched position. All at once the lamp on the left of the line was extinguished, and this seemed to be the signal for the Boer riflemen to commence fire. The light was so bad--in fact there was scarcely any light at all--that it was impossible to see the foresight of a rifle clearly. How were the Boers able to discern our approaching columns? One very intelligent boy in the Black Watch told me that he thought the "wild-fire"--the summer lightning which plays over the veldt--showed up the approaching troops. Others who were present stated that the Kimberley flash-light did the mischief, and a sergeant who marched in the rear of the brigade told me that he could see the whole line of helmets in front of him illumined by these electric flashes. Apart from this, it is quite possible that some treacherous signals from Dutchmen near Modder River camp may have apprised the Boers of our approach.

Be this as it may, the first volleys from the opposing trenches swept through the crowded ranks of the Black Watch with deadly effect. Great confusion ensued, our men could do little by way of retaliation, contradictory orders were given, and the Brigade, unable to hold its ground under the murderous fire, fell back. The fusilade was fearfully severe and what added to its severity was its unexpectedness. It is especially the case in war that the unexpected is terrible. This has been exemplified again and again. On one occasion during the siege of Paris a body of Zouaves had fought splendidly all day in a sortie under a hot fire from the Prussians. They were at length ordered to withdraw some distance into a hollow which would shield them effectually from the Prussian shells and bullets. The Zouaves ensconced themselves in this excellent bit of cover and after their exertions prepared to get a little rest. Suddenly, to their astonishment, a Prussian shell fell plump into the hollow, and although it hurt nobody the entire company leapt to their feet and never stopped until they found themselves within the ramparts of Paris. Yet these men had faced a deadly fire all day when they expected it.

No troops in the world could have done anything in face of the Magersfontein fire: some of the Highlanders, however, lay down and maintained their position actually within 200 yards of the Boer lines throughout the day. They had scarcely any cover, and if they showed themselves by any movement they were picked off by the enemy's sharp-shooters. Several of our wounded told me that they had seen one Boer, got up in the most sumptuous manner--polished jackboots, silk neck-cloth and cigar--strolling leisurely about outside the trenches and firing with extraordinary accuracy at the recumbent figures which dotted the ground before him.

As the Brigade fell back various units were, in the darkness inextricably mixed up, and our losses became more severe as the accuracy of the enemy's fire increased. The booming of our artillery and the rush of our shells upon the Boer trenches put fresh heart into our temporarily disheartened troops, and rallying lines were formed in various directions. Occasional rushes were made towards the almost invisible enemy over the slope already thickly dotted with the bodies of our dead and wounded, and at the close of the disastrous day several gallant Highlanders were found lying dead across the wire entanglements within 150 yards of the Boers, riddled with bullets. The 12th Lancers dismounted, and at one moment, advanced as infantry right up to the Boer trenches. Every one I spoke to expressed the warmest admiration for their coolness and pluck.

A sergeant in the Black Watch, when all the officers had apparently been struck down, cried out to the Highlanders near him: "Charge, men, and prepare to meet your God!" He rushed forward at the head of a few comrades and fell dead with a bullet through his brain within a yard or two of the trenches. There is something truly sublime in this man's devotion to his duty. Many and many an individual act of heroism was displayed during those awful moments in the semi-darkness when the enemy opened fire on our crowded battalions. British officers stood upright, utterly regardless of self, doing their best to rally the shaken troops, and then falling beneath the pitiless hail of bullets. Later on the hillside was littered with field-glasses.

Almost 1,000 yards from the line of kopjes three lines of wire had been placed, which were cut during our advance, and other entanglements were stretched just in front of the trenches. Several men in each company carried wire-cutters with them, but to stand up and snip through lines of barbed wire when the Mauser bullets and the deadly shells of the Pom-Pom gun are tearing up the soil around is perilous work. Some of these entanglements had already been removed after the bombardment on Sunday night, for E Company of the Black Watch and a company of the Seaforths went forward about 7 P.M. in skirmishing order and pulled up the iron stakes and knocked over three parallel lines of barbed wire.

Some of the Highland Brigade very sensibly withdrew towards the right of the Boer position with the idea of outflanking and enfilading the enemy. They succeeded for some time and actually captured some prisoners, but were soon afterwards themselves enfiladed and compelled to retire. Eight men of the Seaforths, however, when the frontal attack failed, retired towards the left instead of the right and suddenly found themselves, to their dismay, well inside the enemy's trenches! The Boers took away their rifles but forgot their side-arms, whereupon one of the Highlanders drew his bayonet, leapt to his feet and stabbed the sentry who was guarding them in the neck. The whole eight then jumped over the earthwork and decamped, escaping unhurt through the bullets which followed them from the enraged burghers.

Many of our wounded lay on the ground from early morning till seven or eight in the evening, exposed all day to the scorching rays of an almost tropical sun. Some of the men brought away in the ambulances were, in fact, suffering from sunstroke, in addition to their wounds, and, as was said above, the bare legs of the three kilted battalions were terribly burnt. The Boers were very kind to our wounded. They came out of the trenches and gave them water. They did not in any case shoot at our wounded men, but frequently shot at any one who came forward during the fight to bandage the wounded. The slightest movement, however, of the bonâ-fide combatants in our ranks drew a hail of bullets from the trenches. A Scotch sergeant, Gilham by name, a most kindly and courageous man, noticed that a comrade near him had been shot through the abdomen. He raised himself up from his recumbent position and began to bandage the wounded man. "Lie down you ---- fool," said the friend; "can't you see you are drawing the fire?" As he spoke a bullet passed between Gilham's knees and struck the wounded man. Soon afterwards an officer called out for a stretcher, so Gilham jumped up and put on his best "hundred" pace in a slanting run towards the ambulance waggons. Several other wounded men leapt up and joined him. One of them was immediately shot through the shoulder, and the good sergeant again stopped and bandaged him. The Boers had been watching him, and as he recommenced his devious course they sent two bullets through a bush two feet in front of him. These small bushes formed very inadequate cover, and the enemy, taking for granted that men were lying concealed behind them, fired repeatedly into the shrubs. In one case no less than eight Highlanders were shot behind one bush.

I have made no attempt to give a detailed account of the day's fighting. If I did I should naturally speak of the excellent work done by the Guards on the right, where the Scandinavian contingent was almost annihilated, and, later on in the day, by the Gordons, who left their convoy work on the left and advanced gallantly towards the Boer position. No praise can be too high for our artillery. It was their excellent shooting that helped our men to rally after the first shock, and which ultimately succeeded in driving the Boers from their first line of trenches. These trenches were admirably constructed in long deep parallel lines connected at the ends so that a force could advance or withdraw from any point without being noticed by ourselves. Shell fire could do little against troops so splendidly entrenched. The Boers, like the Turks at Plevna, crept under their épaulements while the shells screamed overhead or swept the parapets with shrapnel bullets, and then, when this tyranny was overpast, crept out and poured in one of the most terrific fusilades of the century's warfare.

When we returned to Modder River with our carriages ready for a fresh load we found all our troops and guns back again in camp. The trenches, however, were manned, and every one on the alert. The armistice to bury the dead expired on the 13th, and a Boer commando had been sighted to the west. In a brief interval of leisure I took a short stroll, and I noticed how much more plentiful tobacco was now than a month ago when a Mauser rifle was offered for a sixpenny packet of cigarettes. One soldier told me that he had actually paid three shillings for a single cigarette.

We loaded up with 120 fresh cases and steamed off for Capetown. The armoured train was moving fitfully about as we left, but the poor thing's energies were rather cramped as the line disappeared about 300 yards north of the station.

Just before we crossed the river we saw the two war-balloons floating above the camp, and our cook informed us with a great show of expert knowledge that these balloons were absolutely proof against bullets or even shells, "for," said he, "if anything hits them it rebounds from them like my fist does from this 'ere pillow". A rather similar story was told me by a wounded Highlander. He declared that a pal of his had been struck in the stomach by a shell at the Modder River fight. "Oh," said I, "there wasn't much of your poor friend left, I suppose?" "He wasn't much hurt," was the reply, "though he did spit blood for a few hours." "Great Scot! what became of the shell?" "Oh," said my informant, "I didn't notice, but it must have bounced off Bill's stomach." The soldier quite believed that this marvellous incident had occurred. What had happened was probably this: a shell had passed so close to the man that the concussion of the air had "taken his wind" and ruptured some small blood-vessels. I remember at the capture of Malaxa in Crete that three insurgents were hurled to the ground by the air pressure of a Turkish shell which passed within a yard or two of their heads.