it isn't my business to write here any consecutive story of my war experiences. luck and some latent quality in my composition made me a fairly successful soldier. among other things i have an exceptionally good sense of direction, and that was very useful to me, and in burnmore park i suppose i had picked up many of the qualities of a scout. i did some fair outpost work during the ladysmith siege, i could report as well as crawl and watch, and i was already a sergeant when we made a night attack and captured and blew up long tom. there, after the fight, while we were covering the engineers, i got a queer steel ball about the size of a pea in my arm, a bicycle bearings ball it was, and had my first experience of an army surgeon's knife next day. it was much less painful than i had expected. i was also hit during the big assault on the sixth of january in the left shoulder, but so very slightly that i wasn't technically disabled. they were the only wounds i got in the war, but i went under with dysentery before the relief; and though i was by no means a bad case i was a very yellow-faced, broken-looking convalescent when at last the boer hosts rolled northward again and buller's men came riding across the flats....
i had seen some stimulating things during those four months of actual warfare, a hundred intense impressions of death, wounds, anger, patience, brutality, courage, generosity and wasteful destruction—above all, wasteful destruction—to correct the easy optimistic patriotism of my university days. there is a depression in the opening stages of fever and a feebleness in a convalescence on a starvation diet that leads men to broad and sober views. (heavens! how i hated the horse extract—'chevril' we called it—that served us for beef tea.) when i came down from ladysmith to the sea to pick up my strength i had not an illusion left about the serene, divinely appointed empire of the english. but if i had less national conceit, i had certainly more patriotic determination. that grew with every day of returning health. the reality of this war had got hold of my imagination, as indeed for a time it got hold of the english imagination altogether, and i was now almost fiercely keen to learn and do. at the first chance i returned to active service, and now i was no longer a disconsolate lover taking war for a cure, but an earnest, and i think reasonably able, young officer, very alert for chances.
i got those chances soon enough. i rejoined our men beyond kimberley, on the way to mafeking,—we were the extreme british left in the advance upon pretoria—and i rode with mahon and was ambushed with him in a little affair beyond koodoosrand. it was a sudden brisk encounter. we got fired into at close quarters, but we knew our work by that time, and charged home and brought in a handful of prisoners to make up for the men we had lost. a few days later we came into the flattened ruins of the quaintest siege in history....
three days after we relieved mafeking i had the luck to catch one of snyman's retreating guns rather easily, the only big gun that was taken at mafeking. i came upon it unexpectedly with about twenty men, spotted a clump of brush four hundred yards ahead, galloped into it before the boers realized the boldness of our game, shot all the draught oxen while they hesitated, and held them up until chambers arrived on the scene. the incident got perhaps a disproportionate share of attention in the papers at home, because of the way in which mafeking had been kept in focus. i was mentioned twice again in despatches before we rode across to join roberts in pretoria and see what we believed to be the end of the war. we were too late to go on up to komatipoort, and had some rather blank and troublesome work on the north side of the town. that was indeed the end of the great war; the rest was a struggle with guerillas.
everyone thought things were altogether over. i wrote to my father discussing the probable date of my return. but there were great chances still to come for an active young officer; the guerilla war was to prolong the struggle yet for a whole laborious, eventful year, and i was to make the most of those later opportunities....
those years in south africa are stuck into my mind like—like those pink colored pages about something else one finds at times in a railway indicateur. chance had put this work in my way, and started me upon it with a reputation that wasn't altogether deserved, and i found i could only live up to it and get things done well by a fixed and extreme concentration of my attention. but the whole business was so interesting that i found it possible to make that concentration. essentially warfare is a game of elaborate but witty problems in precaution and anticipation, with amazing scope for invention. you so saturate your mind with the facts and possibilities of the situation that intuitions emerge. it did not do to think of anything beyond those facts and possibilities and dodges and counterdodges, for to do so was to let in irrelevant and distracting lights. during all that concluding year of service i was not so much myself as a forced and artificial thing i made out of myself to meet the special needs of the time. i became a boer-outwitting animal. when i was tired of this specialized thinking, then the best relief, i found, was some quite trivial occupation—playing poker, yelling in the chorus of some interminable song one of the men would sing, or coining south african limericks or playing burlesque bouts-rimés with fred maxim, who was then my second in command....
yet occasionally thought overtook me. i remember lying one night out upon a huge dark hillside, in a melancholy wilderness of rock-ribbed hills, waiting for one of the flying commandoes that were breaking northward from cape colony towards the orange river in front of colonel eustace. we had been riding all day, i was taking risks in what i was doing, and there is something very cheerless in a fireless bivouac. my mind became uncontrollably active.
it was a clear, still night. the young moon set early in a glow of white that threw the jagged contours of a hill to the south-east into strange, weird prominence. the patches of moonshine evaporated from the summits of the nearer hills, and left them hard and dark. then there was nothing but a great soft black darkness below that jagged edge and above it the stars very large and bright. somewhere under that enormous serenity to the south of us the hunted boers must be halting to snatch an hour or so of rest, and beyond them again extended the long thin net of the pursuing british. it all seemed infinitely small and remote, there was no sound of it, no hint of it, no searchlight at work, no faintest streamer of smoke nor the reflection of a solitary fire in the sky....
all this business that had held my mind so long was reduced to insignificance between the blackness of the hills and the greatness of the sky; a little trouble, it seemed of no importance under the southern cross. and i fell wondering, as i had not wondered for long, at the forces that had brought me to this occupation and the strangeness of this game of war which had filled the minds and tempered the spirit of a quarter of a million of men for two hard-living years.
i fell thinking of the dead.
no soldier in a proper state of mind ever thinks of the dead. at times of course one suspects, one catches a man glancing at the pair of boots sticking out stiffly from under a blanket, but at once he speaks of other things. nevertheless some suppressed part of my being had been stirring up ugly and monstrous memories, of distortion, disfigurement, torment and decay, of dead men in stained and ragged clothes, with their sole-worn boots drawn up under them, of the blood trail of a dying man who had crawled up to a dead comrade rather than die alone, of kaffirs heaping limp, pitiful bodies together for burial, of the voices of inaccessible wounded in the rain on waggon hill crying in the night, of a heap of men we found in a donga three days dead, of the dumb agony of shell-torn horses, and the vast distressful litter and heavy brooding stench, the cans and cartridge-cases and filth and bloody rags of a shelled and captured laager. i will confess i have never lost my horror of dead bodies; they are dreadful to me—dreadful. i dread their stiff attitudes, their terrible intent inattention. to this day such memories haunt me. that night they nearly overwhelmed me.... i thought of the grim silence of the surgeon's tent, the miseries and disordered ravings of the fever hospital, of the midnight burial of a journalist at ladysmith with the distant searchlight on bulwana flicking suddenly upon our faces and making the coffin shine silver white. what a vast trail of destruction south africa had become! i thought of the black scorched stones of burnt and abandoned farms, of wretched natives we had found shot like dogs and flung aside, rottenly amazed, decaying in infinite indignity; of stories of treachery and fierce revenges sweeping along in the trail of the greater fighting. i knew too well of certain atrocities,—one had to believe them incredibly stupid to escape the conviction that they were incredibly evil.
for a time my mind could make no headway against its monstrous assemblage of horror. there was something in that jagged black hill against the moonshine and the gigantic basin of darkness out of which it rose that seemed to gather all these gaunt and grisly effects into one appalling heap of agonizing futility. that rock rose up and crouched like something that broods and watches.
i remember i sat up in the darkness staring at it.
i found myself murmuring: "get the proportions of things, get the proportions of things!" i had an absurd impression of a duel between myself and the cavernous antagonism of the huge black spaces below me. i argued that all this pain and waste was no more than the selvedge of a proportionately limitless fabric of sane, interested, impassioned and joyous living. these stiff still memories seemed to refute me. but why us? they seemed to insist. in some way it's essential,—this margin. i stopped at that.
"if all this pain, waste, violence, anguish is essential to life, why does my spirit rise against it? what is wrong with me?" i got from that into a corner of self-examination. did i respond overmuch to these painful aspects in life? when i was a boy i had never had the spirit even to kill rats. siddons came into the meditation, siddons, the essential englishman, a little scornful, throwing out contemptuous phrases. soft! was i a soft? what was a soft? something not rough, not hearty and bloody! i felt i had to own to the word—after years of resistance. a dreadful thing it is when a great empire has to rely upon soft soldiers.
was civilization breeding a type of human being too tender to go on living? i stuck for a time as one does on these nocturnal occasions at the word "hypersensitive," going round it and about it....
i do not know now how it was that i passed from a mood so darkened and sunless to one of exceptional exaltation, but i recall very clearly that i did. i believe that i made a crowning effort against this despair and horror that had found me out in the darkness and overcome. i cried in my heart for help, as a lost child cries, to god. i seem to remember a rush of impassioned prayer, not only for myself, not chiefly for myself, but for all those smashed and soiled and spoilt and battered residues of men whose memories tormented me. i prayed to god that they had not lived in vain, that particularly those poor kaffir scouts might not have lived in vain. "they are like children," i said. "it was a murder of children.... by children!"
my horror passed insensibly. i have to feel the dreadfulness of these things, i told myself, because it is good for such a creature as i to feel them dreadful, but if one understood it would all be simple. not dreadful at all. i clung to that and repeated it,—"it would all be perfectly simple." it would come out no more horrible than the things that used to frighten me as a child,—the shadow on the stairs, the white moonrise reflected on a barked and withered tree, a peculiar dream of moving geometrical forms, an ugly illustration in the "arabian nights." ...
i do not know how long i wrestled with god and prayed that night, but abruptly the shadows broke; and very suddenly and swiftly my spirit seemed to flame up into space like some white beacon that is set alight. everything became light and clear and confident. i was assured that all was well with us, with us who lived and fought and with the dead who rotted now in fifty thousand hasty graves....
for a long time it seemed i was repeating again and again with soundless lips and finding the deepest comfort in my words:—"and out of our agonies comes victory, out of our agonies comes victory! have pity on us, god our father!"
i think that mood passed quite insensibly from waking to a kind of clear dreaming. i have an impression that i fell asleep and was aroused by a gun. yet i was certainly still sitting up when i heard that gun.
i was astonished to find things darkly visible about me. i had not noted that the stars were growing pale until the sound of this gun very far away called my mind back to the grooves in which it was now accustomed to move. i started into absolute wakefulness. a gun?...
i found myself trying to see my watch.
i heard a slipping and clatter of pebbles near me, and discovered fred maxim at my side. "look!" he said, hoarse with excitement. "already!" he pointed to a string of dim little figures galloping helter-skelter over the neck and down the gap in the hills towards us.
they came up against the pale western sky, little nodding swaying black dots, and flashed over and were lost in the misty purple groove towards us. they must have been riding through the night—the british following. to them we were invisible. behind us was the shining east, we were in a shadow still too dark to betray us.
in a moment i was afoot and called out to the men, my philosophy, my deep questionings, all torn out of my mind like a page of scribbled poetry plucked out of a business note-book. khaki figures were up all about me passing the word and hurrying to their places. all the dispositions i had made overnight came back clear and sharp into my mind. we hadn't long for preparations....
it seems now there were only a few busy moments before the fighting began. it must have been much longer in reality. by that time we had seen their gun come over and a train of carts. they were blundering right into us. every moment it was getting lighter, and the moment of contact nearer. then "crack!" from down below among the rocks, and there was a sudden stoppage of the trail of dark shapes upon the hillside. "crack!" came a shot from our extreme left. i damned the impatient men who had shot away the secret of our presence. but we had to keep them at a shooting distance. would the boers have the wit to charge through us before the daylight came, or should we hold them? i had a swift, disturbing idea. would they try a bolt across our front to the left? had we extended far enough across the deep valley to our left? but they'd hesitate on account of their gun. the gun couldn't go that way because of the gullies and thickets.... but suppose they tried it! i hung between momentous decisions....
then all up the dim hillside i could make out the boers halting and riding back. one rifle across there flashed.
we held them!...
we had begun the fight of pieters nek which ended before midday with the surrender of simon botha and over seven hundred men. it was the crown of all my soldiering.
