Our hero was a Tommy, with a conscience free from care.And such an open countenance that when he breathed the airHe used up all the atmosphere—so little went to spare.You could hardly say he breathed,—he commandeered it.For, nowadays, you'll notice when a man is "on the make,"And other people's property is anxious for to take,We never use such words as steal, or "collar," "pinch," or "shake:"The fashion is to say he "commandeers" it.And our simple-minded hero used to grumble at his lot;Said he, "This commandeerin's just a little bit too hot.A fellow has to carry every blooming thing he's got,For whatever he lets fall they'll commandeer it."So, at last in desperation, this most simple-minded elf,He thought he'd do a little commandeering for himself;And the first thing that he noticed was a bottle on a shelfIn a cottage, so he thought he'd commandeer it."What ho!" says he, "a bottle! and, by George, it's full of beer!And there's no commandin' officer to come and interfere.So here's my bloomin' health," says he; "I'm on the commandeer."And without another word he commandeered it.Anonymous.
Our hero was a Tommy, with a conscience free from care.And such an open countenance that when he breathed the airHe used up all the atmosphere—so little went to spare.You could hardly say he breathed,—he commandeered it.
For, nowadays, you'll notice when a man is "on the make,"And other people's property is anxious for to take,We never use such words as steal, or "collar," "pinch," or "shake:"The fashion is to say he "commandeers" it.
And our simple-minded hero used to grumble at his lot;Said he, "This commandeerin's just a little bit too hot.A fellow has to carry every blooming thing he's got,For whatever he lets fall they'll commandeer it."
So, at last in desperation, this most simple-minded elf,He thought he'd do a little commandeering for himself;And the first thing that he noticed was a bottle on a shelfIn a cottage, so he thought he'd commandeer it.
"What ho!" says he, "a bottle! and, by George, it's full of beer!And there's no commandin' officer to come and interfere.So here's my bloomin' health," says he; "I'm on the commandeer."And without another word he commandeered it.
Anonymous.
Sir William Lockhart's death, as recently announced in Army Orders, will be deeply deplored by his many friends in the Army in South Africa. It was known that he had been seriously ill last September, but he had seemingly recovered when he visited Burma in December. On his return to Calcutta in January, symptoms developed themselves which caused great anxiety, and, although he telegraphed to the effect that he hoped soon to be all right again, the end was not far distant.
Apart from his ability as a soldier and administrator, Sir William Lockhart endeared himself to all who had the privilege of his personal acquaintance by his charming manners, his genial hospitality and his kindness of heart. Born in 1842, he joined the Indian Army in 1858, and during the Mutiny he was attached to the 7th Fusiliers. He afterwards served with the 26th Punjab Infantry, the 10th Bengal Lancers, and the 14th Bengal Lancers. He was employed on the Staff in the Abyssinian Expedition.
When the Acheen War broke out he was attached to the Headquarters of the Dutch Force, where hemade himself extremely popular. It was interesting to hear him describe the Dutch method of fighting, which, as might be imagined, led to no decisive result. The climate being tropical, the Dutch would only attack the enemy in the early morning; the rest of the day being spent in camp. The enemy were more active, and caused the Dutch much annoyance by frequently disturbing their afternoon siesta. As no means of transport were asked for or provided, the campaign was of a purely defensive nature, and at the end of it things were virtually in the same state as at the beginning.
After remaining in Acheen about eighteen months, Lockhart returned to India, where he joined the Quartermaster-General's Department, and at the beginning of the Afghan War he was chosen to take charge of the line of communications up the Khyber. He afterwards joined Lord Roberts' Staff as Assistant Quartermaster-General at Kabul, and for a short time acted as Chief of the Staff on Charles MacGregor being selected for the command of a brigade. In that capacity he had hoped to accompany his illustrious Chief in the march from Kabul to Kandahar, but General Chapman being his senior on the staff, it was decided, much to Lockhart's disappointment, that he should return to India as Chief of the Staff with the troops under Sir Donald Stewart's command.
He received a C.B. and brevet Colonelcy for his services in Afghanistan, and was afterwards appointed Deputy Quartermaster-General for Intelligence at Army Headquarters, where he remained until 1886, when Lord Roberts became Commander-in-Chief in India in succession to Sir Donald Stewart.He was then sent on an exploring expedition with the late Colonel Woodthorpe, R.E., to Chitral and Kafiristan, and the admirable report which he drew up was of the greatest value to the Government of India in considering what steps should be taken to guard the northern passes between the Pamirs and the Peshawar Valley.
On his return to India, Lockhart was offered the Quartermaster-Generalship in that country, but he preferred the command of a Brigade in Burma, where he greatly distinguished himself by his activity in pursuit of Dacoits. His health, however, was undermined by continual attacks of fever, and he had to be invalided home, where, after a short interval, he became Assistant Military Secretary for India at the Horse Guards.
After holding this post for a couple of years, he accepted the command of the Punjab Frontier Force, which was offered him by Lord Roberts, and in that capacity he commanded a brigade in the Black Mountain Expedition under the late Sir W. K. Elles, and held the chief command in the Waziristan and Isazai Expeditions. No abler or more sympathetic general ever commanded the Punjab Frontier Force; he was beloved alike by the British officers and the Native ranks; he maintained the traditions of the Force and raised it to the highest standard of efficiency; and when he left it he had good reason for regarding it, as he always did regard it, as thecorps d'éliteof the Indian Army.
In April, 1895, the Presidential Armies were broken up and the Army Corps System was introduced, Sir William Lockhart being nominated to the command of the Forces in the Punjab. In this appointmenthe displayed administrative talents of a high order, his main object being to decentralise responsibility and authority, and to diminish office work and official correspondence. It was in a great measure due to his efforts in this direction that the new system worked so smoothly. When he became Commander-in-Chief he kept the same end in view by granting the fullest possible powers to the Lieutenant-Generals of the four Commands and to the General Officers commanding Districts, and by insisting on their making use of those powers to the fullest extent.
In March, 1897, Sir William Lockhart went home, having been advised to undergo a course of treatment at Nauheim. Meanwhile, disturbances took place along the North-West Frontier, which culminated in an outbreak of the Orakzaia and Afridis, and the capture by the latter of our posts in the Khyber Pass. In September he was hurriedly recalled to India for the purpose of commanding the Tirah Expeditionary Force. This is not the place to discuss the operations in Tirah, which were much criticised at home. The fact is that the British public had become so accustomed to almost bloodless victories over savage enemies that they failed to appreciate the extraordinary difficulties of the Afridi country, and the advantages to the defence which the possession of long-range rifles and smokeless powder confers. Moreover, there are no better marksmen in the world than the Afridis, who are born soldiers, and the mobility of hardy mountaineers in their native hills necessarily exceeds that of regular troops encumbered with baggage and supplies.
Anyhow, the result of the expedition fully justified the choice of its commander. The Afridis acknowledged themselves to be thoroughly beaten; and Sir William Lockhart's tact in dealing with them after they had submitted has led to the re-establishment of friendly relations between them and ourselves on a firmer basis than before. What their present attitude is may be judged from the fact that Yar Mahomed, the head of the Malikdin Khels, recently petitioned the Government of India to be allowed to raise 1,500 tribesmen for service in South Africa.
On the conclusion of the Tirah campaign Sir William Lockhart took leave to England, and came out again as Commander-in-Chief in India in November, 1898. He died on the 18th of March, 1900. In him, as Lord Roberts has remarked in his Army Order of the 20th inst., "the soldiers in India have lost a friend, and the Indian Empire a trusted counsellor who cannot soon or easily be replaced."
The late Commander-in-Chief was one of the few remaining representatives of the Quartermaster-General's Department in India, and to the admirable training which that department afforded much of his success as a soldier must be ascribed. No better school of practical instruction in Staff duties could be desired. Among its pupils may be mentioned Lord Roberts himself, Sir Charles MacGregor, Sir Herbert Stewart, Sir William Lockhart, and Sir Alfred Gaselee. Now, alas! it has been abolished, or, at least, incorporated in the Adjutant-General's Department.
Dear Mr. Editor,—The following lines were written by me on board the mail steamer, about two young soldiers now serving with the army:—
'Twas on the deck, that around our ship, from the mast to the taffrail ran,I saw alone, in a chair (not their own), a tall young girl and a man.Her hair was light and fluffy and swarthy and dark was he,And I saw the coon, one afternoon, a-spooning that girl quite free.So I spotted a Quartermaster bold as he went from the wheel to tea,And I asked that Jack, if upon that tack, the passengers went to sea."Lord love yer honour, we often sees that, the stewards and the likes of us;There's always couples a-spooning there, but we never makes no fuss."If you look around, you'll see, I'll be bound, each day at a quarter to three,A tall young fellow with curly hair and a girl in black, quite young and fair,That's another couple," says he."And every night, I assure you it's right, straight up on this deck they'll comeAnd spoon around, till it's time to go down. One night 'twas a quarter to one.""Now it suddenly struck me early one morn, this might be a serious thing.Perhaps they loves, these two little doves, and has offered them the ring.So I leaves them alone in the world of their own; and this 'twixt you and me,I hope I shall, by each little gal, to the wedding invited be."LATER.Then the Quartermaster brushed away a tear with his horny hand,The last couple now have had a row, and don't speak, I understand.'Tis not a fable, she won't sit at his table As she used to do of old;But has taken up with a married man, At least, so I've been told.Old Salt.
'Twas on the deck, that around our ship, from the mast to the taffrail ran,I saw alone, in a chair (not their own), a tall young girl and a man.Her hair was light and fluffy and swarthy and dark was he,And I saw the coon, one afternoon, a-spooning that girl quite free.
So I spotted a Quartermaster bold as he went from the wheel to tea,And I asked that Jack, if upon that tack, the passengers went to sea."Lord love yer honour, we often sees that, the stewards and the likes of us;There's always couples a-spooning there, but we never makes no fuss.
"If you look around, you'll see, I'll be bound, each day at a quarter to three,A tall young fellow with curly hair and a girl in black, quite young and fair,That's another couple," says he."And every night, I assure you it's right, straight up on this deck they'll comeAnd spoon around, till it's time to go down. One night 'twas a quarter to one."
"Now it suddenly struck me early one morn, this might be a serious thing.Perhaps they loves, these two little doves, and has offered them the ring.So I leaves them alone in the world of their own; and this 'twixt you and me,I hope I shall, by each little gal, to the wedding invited be."
LATER.
Then the Quartermaster brushed away a tear with his horny hand,The last couple now have had a row, and don't speak, I understand.'Tis not a fable, she won't sit at his table As she used to do of old;But has taken up with a married man, At least, so I've been told.
Old Salt.
Dear Friend,—I suppose that General French and his lot think they relieved Kimberley? Well, that's all right, and in spite of his name being forrin, he's a good chap; so, as Billy the Sailor says, let's make it so. But I should like to know where would French be now if it wasn't for Billy and the Yank?
Now, you being an up-to-date paper, we thought you might like to have an account of the battle which hasn't ever yet appeared in any paper in the world, yet, as our Adjutant would say, was the most strategically important part of the whole blooming show.
It was me and Billy and the Yank. Billy's asailor—says he was leftenant in the Navy, and I really believe he might have been—he couldn't have learnt to ride so badly anywhere else, and how he faked himself through the riding test is a miracle—then his langwidge is beautiful. The Yank's a Yank; you can tell that by his langwidge, too, and me being an old soldier (12 years in the Buffs and discharge certificate all correct), I was made No. 1 of our section; our No. 4 was an Irishman we left behind at Orange with a broken head, all through fighting outside the Canteen.
Well, when French left Modder, February 15th, we hadn't a horse among the three of us fit to carry his own skin; so there we was left. Our troop leader said he hoped to Heaven he'd seen the last of us, but all the same he gave us a written order, correct enough, to catch up the squadron as soon as possible. There wasn't much doing all day, barring a bit of cooking, but that evening we was sitting round the fire when an M.I. chap comes round and says he's heard there'd be free drinks for the Relief Force in Kimberley, and perhaps our pals was drinking 'em now. That was the first time our Billy really woke up all day. "Free drinks," sezee; "that's my sailing orders." Me and the Yank didn't mind, so we sounds boot and saddle to ourselves in the dark, and off we slips without a word to nobody. My horse seemed cheered up by the day's rest, but before I'd gone half a mile I found I got the wrong horse by mistake! and you'll hardly believe that both Billy and the Yank had made mistakes too! Lor', how we did laugh! but there, there ain't no accounting for horses in the dark.
We each had our own notions of the road; the Yank swore he was tracking the big English cavalry horses; Billy was steering Nor' Wes' by Nor' on some star or other; and I didn't want to argufy, so I just shoves on a couple of lengths and marched on the Kimberley flashlight.
We was going a fair pace too ("making six knots"), and had done near two hours, when all of a sudden we comes over a kopje right on to the top of a bivouack, fires and all.
"Let's get"—"Go astern"—"Sections about"—and we did so, back behind the kopje, linked horses, and crawled up again on our hands and knees.
"First thing," says I, quoting our Adjutant, "is to kalkulate the numbers of the enemy."
"Twenty thousand," says Billy, who always did reckon a bit large. "Make it hundreds," says the Yank, sneering—"and I wouldn't mind betting a pint myself that there was the best part of two dozen of 'em."
"Next point," says I, "who are they?"
"I bleeve they're Highlanders, after all," says Billy; "see the way they're lowering whisky out of them bottles."
"Well then," says the Yank, "you'd better ride up and say you're the General, and they'll drop the whisky and run."
"Highlanders," says I, "don't care a cuss for Boers nor Generals, but say you're the Provost Marshal and they won't stop running this side of Kimberley."
"Those men, sir," says the Yank, "air not Highlanders. Billy's eyes was took with them bottles and got no further. Those men don't wear leg curtains,nor even loud checked bags. They air Boers." And by Jove he was right.
"Well then," says I, getting back to point three, "what's their position?"
"Straight there," says the Yank. "Mostly lying on their stummicks," says Billy.
"My friends," says I, "if your Adjutant should hear you now he'd break his blighted heart. Look here, there's General French lowering free drinks in Kimberley, ain't he? There's the British infantry at Modder, ten miles back, ain't they? And there's twenty thousand Boers plunk in the middle, ain't they? That means, as Adjy would say, General French is busted. Vaultin' ambition! Another orful disaster!"
"My friends, we must reskew General French."
"General be blowed!" says Billy; "let's reskew the whisky."
"Well, bein' agreed on reskewin', wot's our plan of battle? A frontal attack is always to be depre—well, something that means it's a bally error." "Take 'em on the starboard quarter, then."
"But the first principel of tactics is to mystify and mislead the foe."
So far the Yank had been lying rather low, but now he chips in—
"Say, chum, you've pegged it out straight there, and if it ain't jumping your claim, I'll carry on the working." He did know a bit, the Yank did, and we'd fixed up the job in no time. He'd a bag of about a hundred loose cartridges he'd been carrying for days, and in two minutes he'd a nice hot glowing fire right down in a cleft behind the kopjy where it didn't show a bit. "Now boys," says I, taking commandagain, "that bag of cartridges on the top of that fire will make as much musketry noise as a brigade fits of joy. We'll let them have a few real bullets bang in the middle to help out the illooshun. We're three full battalions advancing to attack, and mind you let them hear it; not a word till the first cartridge pops off, and then all the noise you know."
We extended to fifty paces. Billy said it would come more natural if he was the Naval Brigade, and we puts him on the right. The Yank wanted to be the "Fighting Fifth," it reminded him somehow of fighting Stonewall Jackson down South; and the old Buffs was good enough for me, and I took the left. When we'd fixed our places up nicely and charged magazines, the Yank slips back to our fire and plunks the bag of cartridges down in the middle. Then we waited what seemed like a year.
"Bang!" from the fire.
"At 'em, my hearties!" roared the Naval Brigade; "broadside fire—don't lay on the whisky—well done,Condor!"
"Steady the Buffs," says I; "volley firing with magazines—ready—fixed sights—at that fat old buster next the fire—present—Fire!" and sooting the action to the word I let the old buster have a volley in the fattest part.
The Fighting Fifth didn't make much noise, but was shooting straight enough.
Those cartridges went off so quick, once they'd started, that I knew they couldn't last long, so I gives 'em one more file of my magazine and then whistles on my fingers, "Cease fire!"—pop went the last cartridge on the fire—"Who's that silly blighter firin' after the whistle goes?—take his name,Sergeant-Majer—Now, Buffs, fix bayonets—prepare to charge!"
"Avast heaving, full speed ahead and ram them!" yells the Naval Brigade. But the Boers didn't wait for that—what with the dark, and surprise and noise, let alone a few real bullets, they had gone for their horses and were moving hard.
"Now then, Lancers!" I holloared, "round our left flank and pursue them to the devil!" That was just enough to prevent them turning their heads for the first mile or so. Then our brigade reforms and went down the hill to tally up the loot. There was half a dozen cripples, none of them bad, half a dozen knee-haltered horses, a pot of stew on the fire, and half a dozen black bottles. The Fighting Fifth, who was a kind-hearted chap in his way, turned over the wounded, gave them a sup of water, and tied them up with bits of their own shirts. The Naval Brigade had sweated through everything it had on, barrin' its rifle, just out of pure excitement, and it went for the bottles like a cartload of bricks. Blessed if they weren'tDop![3]"Never mind," says the Naval Brigade, "if the quality ain't up to Admiralty pattern, we'll have to issue a double ration"—and he did—so help me! Meanwhile the Buffs had collected the horses and picked out a nice little chestnut for myself. After that the Brigade fell out and enjoyed itself.
But we couldn't waste too much time, so after half an hour we changed saddles, packed thedopin our wallets, and hoisted the Naval Brigade on board. The whole way to Kimberley he was fighting theCondoragainst the combined land and sea forces ofall creation—even the Yank laughed fit to burst. I do believe Billy might have been a commander—one can't learn langwidge like that, even in the Navy, under a longish time.
Well, we fetched Kimberley about reveille after falling off our horses now and then, and we gives the Sergeant-Major half a bottle to look pleasant. Up we goes before the troop leader, who looked a bit glum at his own written order, but cheered up when I hands over three spare Boer horses we'd brought along.
"If I hear any more of this damfoolishness," sezee, "I'll hang the lot of you; so you'd better take care that nobody knows of it." He's almost as hard as the Adjy.
Well, that's why we don't say what Regiment we belong to. But just to give the devil his jew we don't see why General French gets all the telegrams from the Queen and Lord Mayors—and we ain't even had our chocolate served out yet.
But this is the truth—Billy and the Yank'll both swear to it.
Yours truly,
Number One.
Since the days of bows and arrows the art of war has been gradually developing. The arquebus followed the silent bow, and perhaps it may be said that this change was the most revolutionary change ever experienced in the history of warfare. But thearquebus could not effectively prevent the opposing forces from coming to close quarters, and therefore the strong man with a thorough knowledge of the use of thearme blanche—be it pike, sword, or spear—was the mainstay of their armies. With the successive introduction of the matchlock, Brown Bess, and the host of old muzzle-loading rifles, up to the time when the Snider rifle came into use, still the same conditions of fighting remained. By the same conditions I mean the following:—
(1) The enemy, when firing at an effective range, was visible to the naked eye of his opponent.
(2) Even when concealed behind cover the smoke of his rifle easily disclosed his position.
(3) Neither the accuracy nor the rapidity of fire was sufficient to make an attack across open ground by a slightly superior force impossible.
The introduction of the Martini-Henry completely altered at least the third of these conditions, but owing to the fact that no European war of great importance was fought with Martini-Henrys, the change was not brought home to military theorists. It is true that the Turks fought the Greeks with the Martini and the Gras rifles, but the war was not serious, and the Greeks never held even their entrenched positions with sufficient tenacity to bring home to the world the fact that an advance across the open towards an enemy under cover was becoming more and more impossible.
But smokeless powder and the long range rifle brought with them changes which do not appear to be properly understood. In the first place, it may be laid down as an axiom of warfare that the area of effective rifle fire (and indeed of any fire) is restrictedby the areas of vision. During the present war it has become evident to those who have studied the question, that the dangerous zone of fire with modern rifles is not, as was at first supposed, within the 1,000 yards range, but within 1,500 or even 1,600 yards.
To advance in the open against an enemy, even when that enemy is not under cover but simply lying on the ground, involves one of two alternatives. Either the advancing force is annihilated by the time it gets to within 500 yards of the enemy, or it is forced to lie down 1,500 yards away or less and return the enemy's fire. But the latter alternative produces a state of things which has never been known in the history of war. Both the advancing and the expectant forces are put out of action. Neither can advance and, what is more serious still, neither canretire.
This contingency opened up an entirely new field of tactics. The general who can, with a smaller force, succeed in putting out of action, at least for the time being, a greater force of his opponent, is more likely to win his battle. In the future, the curious sight will be seen of regiments or even brigades lying flat on the ground, doing little damage to the enemy and suffering little loss, and yet being as useless to their general as if they were snoring in their barracks at home. Perhaps this is too sweeping, for their presence in front of the enemy will have the advantage of containing him, but in the open, across which an enemy has to advance, a containing force of a proportion of one man to five of the enemy is quite sufficient. Therefore the use of a brigade to contain a brigade wouldbe a waste of material. Even those of us who have followed closely and carefully all the stages of the campaign do not yet perceive the magnitude of the changes involved by the use of modern rifles, but they appear to me to be so radical that instead of describing them as fresh developments, I would prefer to give an affirmative answer to the title of this article.
But there yet remains to be discussed the question of thearme blanche—the bayonet, the weapon with which our gallant army has won so many of its victories. I have heard not a few officers declare that this war will be known in history as the last war in which a British soldier carried a bayonet. But is the discarding of the bayonet to be one of the results of the use of the new rifle and the smokeless powder? When fighting against an enemy who does not carry it, the force which is armed with a bayonet has a tremendous moral superiority. In the present war, there have been one or two cases—one, particularly, at Slingersfontein—where the Boer has made a frontal attack on a prepared position held by us. The attacks have always been made along the tops of kopjes which afforded excellent cover for a stealthy advance. The obvious way to meet such attacks was to wait until the enemy came close enough to allow the use of the bayonet, and this was done with great success at Slingersfontein. So that it may be laid down that in cases where one only of two opposing forces is armed with the bayonet, it is obviously to its advantage that the enemy should in attacking come to close quarters.
It is, equally, to the manifest advantage of the defending force, if unarmed with the bayonet, toprevent, with heavy rifle fire, the enemy from being able to use the bayonet. But in my humble opinion, the bayonet will not be discarded for a long time. In the first place, the best tactician in the world cannot always prevent, even with modern rifles, such things as surprises, and small bodies of men might still, even under the new conditions, be able to get unperceived into close quarters with the enemy. But the greatest reason for its retention is that night attacks are still possible, and in night attacks the bayonet is undoubtedly the weapon to be used. The very mention, however, of night attacks opens up a long vista of discussion and arguments which I do not wish to raise. I am aware that there are many prominent soldiers who will have nothing to say to night attacks and condemn them lock, stock and barrel, but they can never be eliminated from the already long list of the contingencies of warfare. Until something is mooted which will render night attacks absolutely impossible, so long will the bayonet be retained.
But perhaps the most radical changes effected by the use of the long range rifle will be in purely regimental organisation. A company now extends for the attack over a space of over half a mile. The ordinary complement of officers assigned to a company can never hope to control the whole of it. What is the remedy? And how are we to bring up ammunition to the firing line, or carry away our wounded from it? Can a regiment extended for the attack eight paces apart act as a regiment, or in the future is the company to be the biggest infantry unit in action? All these questions spring from the experiences of the present campaign, and it is to behoped that they will be answered by those whose experience in the many engagements against the enemy will give value and force to their words.
Received orders at 10 a.m. to proceed at once to Ram Dam and to join the main column as soon as possible. Requisitioned for transport immediately and supplied at 6 p.m. with about four dozen small dilapidated hair trunks, misnamed mules, which looked as if they required three square meals rolled into one, and a fortnight in bed! No self-respecting cat would have looked at them twice, even cold on a wooden skewer!
Made a disastrous stand at 8 p.m., as we succeeded in losing our way in the record time of fifteen minutes, thanks to having no guide and to a flighty and uncertain young moon, which insisted on playing hide and seek at the most awkward times. However, we struck the wire at last, not the barbed variety fortunately, and had brief periods of comparatively smooth going, variegated by such trifling mishaps as a broken trace, falling mule, or mule and harness so mixed up that we couldn't distinguish which was harness and which was mule and requiring careful sorting out! Veldt stones were also somewhat inconvenient, as they vary in size to anything above or below a Pickford van. However, it was a fine night and the mules almost seemed to warm to their work, racing along in great style at fully three miles an hour on a smoothish bit of road and appreciably downhill!
What rapture to be out on the starry veldt and to have left that Enslin "News"—the transport lines—miles (five and a doubtful bit) behind us. Shortly afterwards the moon again appeared, and we proceeded to negotiate a very promising nullah with gently sloping sides. Full speed ahead and up we go, but, alas! the latter part of our programme was somewhat disarranged, like Labby's furniture at Northampton, owing to the fact that buck waggons and mule transport are not adapted to racing through a truckload of sand of uncertain depth but of certain difficulty! However, "man the wheels and shove behind" was the natural sequence of events, and when the mules ceased pulling in every direction except the right one from sheer exhaustion, a few judicious cracks of the sjambok, together with a few different languages, mostly bad, and up we eventually did go.
A wide stretch of perfectly flat veldt lay before us, and we shortly lost both moon and wire simultaneously. Some one suggested "follow the track": valuable advice, but difficult to carry out, as there happened to be about fourteen of them, and all in different directions. Pleasant predicament to be in: 1 a.m., cloudy sky, and lost on the anything but trackless veldt! Feel about as comfortable as the man who was going to be hanged at 8 a.m. Finally decided to proceed at right angles, and return our wrong way if necessary, and succeeded in finding that precious wire at last. Persistency is the road to success, but what about an old hen sitting on a china egg?
Moon on the wane, but reached Ram Dam at 3 a.m., and all of us surprised and delighted to getthere, as it would have very shortly been a case of the "light that failed!" Ram Dam itself looks like a remarkablylowThames somewhere near the Isle of Dogs, but glad to get anywhere, and ready to eat or drink anything.
(With an Original Verse by Rudyard Kipling.[4])
Through war and pestilence, red siege and fire,Silent and self-contained he drew his breath.Too brave for show of courage—his desireTruth as he saw it, even to the death.Rudyard Kipling.
Through war and pestilence, red siege and fire,Silent and self-contained he drew his breath.Too brave for show of courage—his desireTruth as he saw it, even to the death.
Rudyard Kipling.
There is a pretty little cypress grove nestling under the shadow of one of the Ladysmith defences. A peaceful oasis—green where the land is parched and dry. It is God's acre. Before shaking the dust of Ladysmith from off my feet for ever, I turned my pony's head towards the green. The little animal seemed to know the way, and well he should, for the melancholy journey to the cemetery had been frequent during the latter period of the siege. I tied the pony to the rail and passed in under the shadow of the cypresses. The interior of the enclosure was one stretch of new-turned earth. The turf seemed all exhausted. The dainty cemetery of three months ago had now the appearance of a badly harrowed field. In places a rough cross marked the last resting-place of the victims of war and pestilence, a few had the names just scrawledupon a chip of wood; the majority lay unnamed—the price of Empire keeping: a nameless grave!
I passed down the clay trodden pathway. The brief legends ran—Egerton, Lafone, Watson, Field, Dalzel, Dick-Cunyngham, Digby Jones, Adams—but why name them? They were all men whom three months ago I had called my friends. Then I found the spot for which I searched—a plain wooden cross inscribed G. W. Steevens, and a date. What an end—six feet of Ladysmith's miserable soil! It was too cruel. My memory carried me back to the brave companion and upright colleague who was gone, and to the manner of his death—the man who had raced with the Cameron Highlanders for Mahmoud's zareba; who had stood with his hands in his pockets when it seemed that it must be but a matter of minutes before Wad Helu swallowed up Macdonald's Soudanese brigade. The man who had scorned death on Elandslaagte's crest lay there a victim to pestilential Ladysmith. If the spare frame had been as stout as the heart which it contained, that miserable rat-hole could not have brought about the end. Poor Steevens—how he strove to live! For a month he lay and fought the battle for life. And then when all seemed well, and we looked for the day that we should have him back again, he quietly faded under a relapse.
Doctors could do no more, and at four in the afternoon of the fatal day it was evident that the end was near. Maud, who had nursed him with a devotion unsurpassed, was deputed to break the news. He came to the bedside and suggested that Steevens should dictate a wire to his people at home. The patient looked up suddenly, and in a momentwas conscious of the sinister purport of the request. The conversation which ensued was something of the following:—
"Is it the end?"
Maud nodded assent.
"Will it be soon?"
Again Maud nodded assent.
Steevens turned wearily, and remarked, "Well, it is a strange sideway out!" Then there passed over his face an expression which plainly read, "I will not die!"
He turned to Maud and said, almost gaily, "Let's have a drink."
Maud opened a new bottle of champagne and poured out half a glass. Steevens sipped it, and noticing that Maud had no glass, remarked, "You are not drinking!"
He seemed better after the wine, and when the last message was dictated he was still struggling for life; but the disease had the upper hand, and he sank into unconsciousness which was never broken until he passed away in the evening.
We buried him at midnight. As we took him down to the cypress grove, it seemed that the enemy paid tribute to our sorrow, for their searchlight played full upon the mournful cavalcade as it wound into the open.
Bloemfontein,March 23, 1900.
Dear Sir,—A distinguished General Officer—who is also an exceedingly clever man—was issuing orders on one occasion. "I have no wish," saidhe, "to interfere with the time-honoured Custom which ordains that heroes may be dirty; but, until they become heroes, I see no reason why they should not try and look like soldiers. The troops under my command will, therefore, shave until they arrive at the actual front."
This witty sentence provides me with an admirable text for a sermon on a subject very near my heart. Our troops have, indeed, proved themselves heroes. Whatever may be the opinion expressed now and hereafter upon many things in the conduct of this war, upon one thing there can be no dissentient voice—I refer to the splendid heroism of our troops. Yes, sir, they are heroes. But why, oh! why do they not try and look like soldiers too? Why should the erstwhile smart Guardsman, the dandy Highlander, the dapper Horseman, adopt the facial disguise of a poacher out of luck, or rather—for the beard is not a good one—of a member of the criminal classes previous to the Saturday evening's ablutions? Surely soap can be purchased, razors ground, and water heated.
It is universally admitted that one of the chief duties of a soldier is to be smart in his appearance, and the fact that on active service there may be some difficulty is surely no excuse for its neglect. In all other periods of the world's history shaving was looked upon as one of the chiefest necessities in time of war. Napoleon's Old Guard shaved, as is well known, throughout the entire retreat from Moscow; there was not a hair upon the faces of Hannibal's legions the day after the famous crossing of the Alps, while Caesar's well-known order, "Ut barbas tondeant," must be familiar to every schoolboy.I might come down to our own times and quote the Queen's Regulations, but I refrain from doing so lest I should be accused of priggishness.
It is, I do not hesitate to say, horrible to me to see the unkempt appearance of those who might be—and are at other times—the finest-looking troops in the world. I feel inclined to say, in the words of Scripture, "Tarry ye at Jericho until (and after) your beards be grown."
I hope, sir, you will forgive this somewhat lengthy letter, but the subject is, as I have said already, very near my heart. No one ever has looked well in a beard, and no one ever will, and until our officers recognise this fact and set an example of spruceness for their men to follow, the army in South Africa must remain an eyesore to all who share the opinions of
Your obedient servant,
Field Officer.
And I also here discuss that irreconcilable maiden, Lord Stanley, and our own behaviour.
We published in the next issue, No. II, of March 26th, a letter by "Miss Uitlander" (pronounced in that country "Aitlander"). It was as genuine a production of the young womanhood of the town as that of "Miss Bloemfontein" had been, and it would have been wholly to our liking had it been as exceptional and bold a bit of work as the other, for it was, naturally, very pro-English. Suffice it to say that it answered and contradicted the Boer sentiments with vigour.
Miss Bloemfontein.(A Portrayal of a Type, by Lester Ralph.)
Miss Bloemfontein.(A Portrayal of a Type, by Lester Ralph.)
This reminded us that we were to enjoy no more communications from the sprightly and talented Miss Bloemfontein. Most gallantly we had resolved to allow her the last word and there end the correspondence; but she had remained silent, leaving us with that "last word" which we, like simpletons, had never doubted that she would claim as hers by right of her womanhood. She was laughing at the predicament in which she had abandoned us, for she was wide awake at all points.
She had done me the honour to ask me to call upon her and—in this the laugh was on my side—then had repented of it. She repented because, in my reply to her communication, I had addressed her as "sweetheart" and had called her "dear." It had happened that when she wrote to the paper she let a few close friends into the secret, and these, when they read my lover's terms addressed to her, made haste to twit her upon the publicity of these verbal caresses, so that from rose-and-pearl she became peony red and hot of cheeks, and not nearly as desirous of seeing me as before my second letter saw the light.
However, I went to her home and found it very prettily appointed and comfortable, with an admiring family gathered around their girlish idol who had been to London, and who sang sweetly, played the piano deftly, and seemed to have read at least a little upon many subjects. She was, I should say, seventeen or eighteen, a pure blonde, still very girlish both in face and figure. I spent a pleasant hour in her company, and an English officer who called there at the same time endeavoured to persuade her to make up a party for afternoon tea at his regimental camp near the town. But her mother had announced that she could not bear to walk in the streets and see the British soldiers disfiguring the once hallowed scenery of the place, so it was perhaps, no wonder that Miss Bloemfontein declined to take afternoon tea with those enemies.
"I will not do anything to encourage or recognise their presence," she said.
"When your mother is not looking, I am going to whisper something to you," I remarked. "Now is mytime. It is this: You are a little fraud; you are no Boer at all."
I intended to continue by explaining that a girl so clever and well read, and who lived amid such refined surroundings, could not possibly sympathise with the rude and ignorant people of the veldt. But she suspected that I meant something different.
"You mean because I am a Jewess," she said.
And then came the most comical closing of this very peculiar episode. She, who elected herself to be the champion of the Boers, was a Jewess, and I, who wooed her supposed sisterhood as an English adorer, am an American.
Ah, well, little Miss Bloemfontein, I was at least genuine in standing up for liberty, justice, and the highest principles of good government. They are the prizes that are guarded by my flag as well as by the one which floats over your town. And if you were as earnest in your sympathy for the Boers it was either because you had been deceived by them as to the causes of the war and the issues at stake, or else it was because your loyalty to the friends of a lifetime outweighed all else. May we not, then, part here with mutual esteem and respect?
In this number we published two contributions by Mr. Kipling, a second one of the "Fables for the Staff" and some "Kopje-book Maxims." All of us tried to assist at the framing of these maxims, but, though we suggested two or three (Mr. Landon being the most fertile at the time) Mr. Kipling shaped them all in his own way and with a readiness and ease which excelled any work of composition that I have ever seen done by any writer in all my experience. It was said of himthree or four years ago that he was then writing too much, but it will always seem to us that his difficulty must be in restraining himself, and in publishing only the best that wells from his mind.
Another peculiarity that we noticed was that he would, by preference, carry forward two or three manuscripts at once and would write, now at one, and presently at another. The "Kopje-book maxims" reveal this breadth and variety of his mental processes to whoever is able to understand the fine shadings of the meanings of them all, and to those who can comprehend the fact that they were literally "dashed off" hot, like sparks under a smith's hammer. If these mere playthings of his pen, done as part of our merry and careless morning's work, were forced to stand as specimen products of the methods of this master writer, an injustice to him would follow. The point is that his methods are the same, and his mind works with similar freedom and celerity, at all times, and at whatever he does; at least so far as we were able to judge. But what he wrote forThe Friendwas finished and published on the instant without the after-polishing and refinement of the flawless work which has made him world-famous.
In this same number we printed an interesting forecast of the future of the Free State by Mr. Fred J. Engelbach. An officer sent us a jocular account of the amazingly plucky work being done by the Ordnance Survey—and particularly of one feat by Major Jackson, R.E. We also published, from my pen, a short warning to the soldiers not to drink the water out of certain wells which had for years been known to contain the germs of enteric. I learned the fact during my visit tomy "sweetheart," Miss Bloemfontein, and as I look back, now, upon that paragraph I almost shudder to think how little we dreamed that in a few weeks 7,000 men of our force would be down with that dread disease.
I have referred to the fact that Lord Stanley came every day at noon to overlook what we had done. I would ask for nothing more amusing than to have heard his gossip at the Residency upon the manner in which he foundThe Friendto be conducted and produced. The truth was that we had finished everything for the day, except the interminable proof-reading, by the time he reached what the country editor grandiloquently refers to as "our sanctum sanctorum." In consequence he always caught us just as we were looking up from our desks and taking a deep breath of relief.
We who have been bred in this profession may not realise just what applause is to an actor, or what there may be to a mariner in the movement and breath of the ocean; but we fully realise that journalism is perhaps the only calling that men find as full of fun as it is of hard work. The company of bright minds, certain to be sanguine and optimistic, the excitement produced by unexpected news, the rush to prepare it most attractively and against time, the thousand unpublishable conceits and views and arguments that leap to the mind and are discussed in council, the freaks and blunders of the reporters and contributors—all these elements are in the cup of joy that a journalist drinks off every day.
Therefore when Lord Stanley came he was certain to find us merry and voluble and prankish. He mayhave imagined that we must perforce be grave—we to whom was given the high and almost religious right to speak for an empire and an army, and to conduct a British organ in so delicate a situation as was ours among the Boers—neither offending them nor giving them a chance to find a flaw in the practice of our principles. Grave enough was that part of our work which we meant to be so.
Serious in its strain upon us and important in its effort to rest and inform and recreate the soldiers, was most of what we did. But it is a habit of the journalist's mind and a result of his work that he shall be or become a philosopher, viewing the world as it is, no matter how differently he may present it to a duller and more conservative public.
Therefore Lord Stanley found us declaiming soldier poetry, writing nonsense verses, drawing caricatures of one another, telling stories, behaving like men without a care on their minds. We realised that he must be shocked at us—and we voted that he behaved very well under the circumstances. He usually came in with a quick step and an air of business. We delayed him with chaff which he seemed always at a loss to understand at first. He got at our bundles of proof-sheets and he applied himself to them most gravely. By and by he began to catch the contagion of our spirits, his eye wandered from the sheets, he wavered—he began to join in our talk. "Is there anything else—or anything you are in doubt about?" he would ask. He believed us when we answered him, for he knew that we understood what not to publish. In that mutual trust and confidence there grew up a relation between us and himself which was dearly prized by us, and which we hope he esteemed as highly.
Once he told us that there had been complaint of a mock-speech by the German Emperor which some one had written among a lot of pretended cablegrams avowedly fanciful. Once he declined to publish a mild attack of mine upon Mr. Winston S. Churchill for finding fault with our army chaplains. At another time, upon the ground of prudence, he threw out an article upon our treasonous colonists which we copied from an Afrikander exchange. Apart from these slight exercises of his power he passed all our work, though it was as big in bulk as the "Newcomes" and "Vanity Fair" rolled together—300,000 words—ten columns a day for nearly thirty days!
I have called the censor's office a "hole in a wall," but oursanctumwas not half as neat or presentable. Whoever has carried the collecting mania into the study of country newspaper offices has noticed how one never differs from another. The greasy smell of printer's ink, the distempered walls stuck over here and there with placards and the imprint of inky fingers, the gaping fireplace, the bare, littered floor, the table all cut on top and chipped at the edges, the bottomless chairs with varying degrees of further dismemberment, the "clank—clank" of the press in the next room—these are the proofs positive of genuine country newspaper offices the world around—from Simla to Bismarck, Dakota, and back again. And the office ofThe Friendwas like all the rest.
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
BLOEMFONTEIN, MONDAY, MARCH 26, 1900.
A discriminating Boer, having laid a Nestfull of valuable and informing Eggs, fled across the Horizon under pressure of necessity, leaving his Nest in a secluded Spot, where it was discovered by a Disinterested Observer who reported the same to an Intelligence Officer. The Latter arriving at his Leisure with a great Pomposity said: "See me hatch!" and sitting down without reserve converted the entire Output into an unnecessary Omelette.
After the Mess was removed, the Disinterested Observer observed: "Had you approached this matter in another spirit you might have obtained Valuable Information."
"That," replied the Intelligence Officer, "shows your narrow-minded Prejudice. Besides I am morally certain that those Eggs come out of a Mare's Nest."
"It is now too late to inquire," said the Disinterested Observer, "and that is a pity."
"But am I not an Intelligence Officer?" said the Intelligence Officer.
"Of that there can be no two opinions," said the Disinterested Observer. Whereupon he was sent down.
Moral.Do not teach the Intelligence to suck Eggs.
(With suggestive help from Perceval Landon.)
HORSE.
Two Horses will shift a Camp if they be dead enough.
Forage is Victory; Lyddite is Gas.
Look before you Lope.
When in doubt Flank; when in force Outflank.
FOOT.
Take care of the towns and the Tents will take care of themselves.
Spare the Solitary Horseman on the sky-line; he is bound to be a Britisher.
Abandoned Women and Abandoned Kopjes are best left alone.
Raise your hat to the Boer—and you'll get shot.
GUNS.
The Dead Gunner laughed at the Pom-pom.
"I Bet I killed 'Eighty,'" roared the 4·7.
"I have buried my three," snapped the Lee-Metford.
"It is well to keep your hair on; it is Better to take out your Tompion."
A shell on the Rand is worth ten on the veldt.
There are ninety and nine roads to Stellenbosch, but only two to Pretoria. Take the other.
(Kopjeright in all armies and standing camps.)
Dear Mademoiselle,—I pray that you will excuse me for venturing to set you right upon one or two matters which I noticed in your reply to Mr. Ralph. Miss Uitlander did, indeed, with joy and pride, trip out to meet Mr. Englishman, though, as a matter of fact, she is as much Miss Bloemfontein as yourself. In reality, your correct name is Miss Free-Stater. But that is a trifle which may pass. The "loving hand" you boast of having extended to us has long since been covered by an iron glove, the weight of which we have daily been made to feel, and to that you must associate the joyful flaunting of our colours in your face. His coming meant freedom—the sweetest thing in the world—to us. You called our brothers and sisters cowards as they fled your oppression and bitter and openly expressed hatred. You threw white feathers into the carriages as they passed you by. You loudly bemoaned your fate as a woman and longed to don masculine garments to aid your beaux in exterminatingthe hated English. Could we remember a "loving hand" then?
You were quick to tell us that there would be no room for us to live beside you so soon as Mr. Englishman was driven back to the sea. "The hated English had never been wanted and would not be allowed to stay." And since you continue to make no secret of your hatred, the same remedy is now in your own hands. But it will be difficult to find a spot where Mr. Englishman is noten evidence.
To use Mr. Chamberlain's famous phrase, "There is a point where silence is weakness." That point has been reached. You seem to forget that you simply and generously, of course, gave away your town and State without the faintest shadow of a cause, to the nation who never had the remotest idea of coming near you or troubling you. You were eager to cross arms with the most powerful nation in the world, knowing as you must have done, deep in your sensible mind, that you would lose in the fray.
You hint at our ingratitude. How about your own? Had it not been for England your land would never have had a place in the existence of South African territory from the days of long ago.
Who has helped to uphold the dignity of your land? Mr. Englishman.
Who has helped to fill your coffers, public and private, with wealth? Mr. Englishman.
Who has been the chief spirit of commerce within your gates? Mr. Englishman.
And whom has it been your greatest pride to imitate in manner, in dress, and in speech but Mr. Englishman?
Nay, had he withdrawn his patronage as he might have done, your land would have collapsed like a bubble.
Mr. Englishman is too valuable a factor in the world's history to be easily discarded.
Yours is thus the debt of gratitude.
You speak hastily when you gibe at the "awful and untuneful melodies" with which Mr. Englishman deigned to soothe your heaving breast; and would lead one to suppose that you had ever been used to the most exquisite of public music, when in truth your town has scarcely ever been privileged to listen to such. Its own band in the days that are past can hardly compare favourably with even the recent melodies which compel you to close your ears with cotton wool, and even your musical ear must have been satisfied had you listened to the band and music at Government House a few nights ago. But doubtless the cotton wool had not been taken out.
I beg leave to contradict your statement that Miss Uitlander would "push" Mr. Englishman out of your land while welcoming your brothers back to their country. Miss Uitlander has discovered too certainly the real truth of your "loving hand" ever to trust in it again. And if you could so joyfully turn Mr. Englishman out of your borders, rest assured Miss Uitlander would most certainly accompany him. She does not, as so many have done, paint one colour one day and another the next. And if Mr. Englishman only waits a little longer he will win not only the country but yourself as well.
Miss Uitlander.
(With this final word from the fair Miss Uitlander, who has been discussed, yet has not before spoken for herself, the Editors decide to end this interesting series of letters.)
Market slightly weaker this morning. Sales: Bantjes Deeps, 11s. 6d.; Benons, 43s.; Mains, 43s.; Randfonteins, 60s.; Vogel Deeps, 27s. 3d.; Wit Deeps, 45s.
"When a battery comes under rifle fire it becomes worse than useless," once said a well-known foreign military expert. And if this statement is to be accepted, as we accept Euclid's axioms, then indeed I should be inclined to say that the art of war has become revolutionised completely. But having seen G Battery at Magersfontein practically silence at a range well within 1,500 yards (I believe at one time it was only 1,200 yards) a strong force of the enemy's riflemen firing from good cover on an undulating plain, it becomes apparent that the military expert's dictum is incorrect. I cite the instance of G Battery because, perhaps it is the best known in the operations in the Western Frontier, but I could, if necessary, give twenty cases where both Horse and Field Batteries have worked magnificently and effectively under a galling fire.
At the same time I do not wish, for a moment, tolay it down as one of the rules of modern warfare that guns can be worked with impunity within 1,500 or even 2,000 yards of the enemy's rifle fire, for the danger of being put out is so apparent that it needs no demonstration. But artillery must have a good "position." Batteries cannot be hidden behind boulders as infantry soldiers can. Gunners must have an open field and more or less a commanding point from which to lay their guns. This necessity—a necessity to which no other arms are so completely subjected—has entailed, during the course of the present war, the risk of whole batteries being under rifle fire. Before the introduction of the long-range rifle, there were but few instances where guns, in order to take up proper positions, were forced to come under effective rifle fire. Now, however, we have to face this risky possibility. And in this respect, and this respect only, can the use of the modern rifle be said to have made any change in the rules of war laid down for the use of artillery.
The present campaign, if viewed from the point of view of the artilleryman, is an abnormal one. Field and horse batteries have had to face what has been practically siege artillery. In Natal we have been outranged by the use, by the Boers, of guns of great calibre and no mobility. We have faced the difficulty—and successfully too—by bringing on to the field naval guns of equal calibre to the enemy's. And, although we have been surprised at the rapid way in which the Boers have shifted their heavy guns, I still dare to think that we can move our 4.7 guns with greater rapidity. My intention, however, is not to discuss the use of the naval large calibre guns in field operations. Such a discussion would be outsidethe scope of this article. I prefer to look upon their use in this campaign as an abnormal episode—which, perhaps, may never again occur in civilised warfare, except in case of sieges.
Artillery in operation in the field is represented by Horse and Field (Howitzers and ordinary) guns. Now what lessons have our artillery learnt from the engagements of the present war? That is the most important question, and I propose to answer it to the best of my ability, feeling and hoping that my answer will induce abler answers from other pens.
It is impossible, in discussing the uses and abuses of any particular arm, to dissociate that arm from the whole to which it belongs. A complete modern force should consist of a proper proportion of horse, foot, and artillery. The three form the whole, the perfect machine. The parts must fit into each other as the cogs of one wheel fit into those of another. In the war of the future infantry will be used for two purposes—to contain the opposing infantry, and to hold positions seized by the mobile portion of the force, be it cavalry or mounted infantry. There will be very little preparation by the artillery for infantry attack, for the simple reason that I am convinced that frontal attacks are things of the past. Not the modernest of modern artillery, lyddite, melinite, or whatever high explosive is used, can by frontal concentration move or weaken infantry sufficiently to destroy their defensive power against an infantry attack.
There will, therefore, be in the next war between European or civilised military Powers grand artillery duels between the opposing artillery, while the mounted force of one is trying to outflank the other.The obvious necessity, therefore, is the highest development of the most mobile portion of the artillery—the R.H.A. Flank movements must necessarily be the tactics of the future. Battles will be, as they always have been, won by strategy, but for modern strategy and modern tactics the great necessity will be the greatest mobility of the greatest force. But the British Army, as it certainly possesses the finest material for infantry in the world, also possesses, I feel sure, as fine an artillery as any. I am not talking now of guns, but of the men who work them. In attempting to outflank an enemy with the mobile portion of his force, the general of the next war will find his flanking movement met by the mobile portion of his opponent's army. The result is to be either a return to the old cavalry charges against cavalry or an artillery duel. The latter, I believe, will be the case. The cavalry of the future will be a mixture of the mounted infantry men and the cavalry men, and as such will be able to stop with rifle fire any attempts at the old-fashioned charge, and the verdict will be pronounced by the gunners. Then, indeed, will the better-trained, better-equipped, better-handled horse artillery be able either to drive back the attack and so save the whole situation, or to force in the defence and win the whole battle. Wherefore it would appear to me that we should improve and improve our horse artillery until we have the best guns, the best gunners, and the best organisation in the world. I know we have the best material.
Exactly the same thing applies to the Field Artillery, which I, for one, would like to see done away with. That is to say, that the distinctions between Horse and Field Artillery should be removed. Iwould give a heavier gun and a better gun to the Horse Battery, and make the Field Battery men mobile. This would give us an uniform artillery, in which the mobility of the Field guns would be increased and the range of Horse guns improved. After all, the difference in weight of a Field and a Horse gun is not so great. We must be prepared to provide some means of moving it more rapidly. The advantages of this change appear to be self-evident. The quick and rapid movement of artillery is bound to be the great factor in future battles. We are making our infantry men mobile, every day; why not do the same with the artillery? If we can bring up a gun of equal calibre to that of the enemy, the issue will be to the better-manned, better-handled gun. To be able to rapidly throw a great force on any given point of the enemy's line is to ensure victory in infantry tactics. The same thing applies, surely, to the artillery. Why have a slow and a rapid moving artillery? Why not make the whole of it capable of rapidity?
This campaign has been the first between two civilised nations where high explosives have been used in the bursting charges. I have made careful inquiries from Boer prisoners as to its effect, and the only conclusion that I have come to is that veracity is not a virtue of the burgher. Some have spoken of the bursting of a lyddite shell as the most terrible experience they have ever had, and have compared its action to that of an earthquake. But I must confess that on pursuing my inquiries further I have generally found that these vivid portrayers of its awful effects have been attached to some hospital in the rear. The prisoners taken at Paardeberg were singularly dividedas to its destructive power. Albrecht is said to have declared that it was a pure waste to drop a lyddite shell into soft ground, and to have admitted that on rocky ground it had a most demoralising effect. On the whole, however, I am inclined to say that the effect of lyddite is certainly not as great as we expected, and I cannot help thinking that time-shrapnel well burst and well aimed is more dreaded by the Boers than lyddite shells.
And now I am going to tread on delicate ground. We have all our little idiosyncrasies, and gunners are not without theirs. They will have nothing to say to the Vickers-Maxim. "It is a toy and not a gun," I have heard many a gunner declare. But I contend that we have never used it properly. Lord Dundonald's galloping Maxim was intended to accompany cavalry. Why not have a galloping "pom-pom"? It can be brought into action with great speed, it has a great range, and everybody will agree that it is a most accurate gun. It would have been most useful against the Boers when they fled from Poplar Grove, and its effect upon a battery coming into action is not to be despised, as the gallant T Battery will testify from their experiences at Driefontein. Again, its use on kopjes held by cavalry pending the arrival of infantry would surely be beneficial. It has a demoralising effect; even more so than a percussion shrapnel, and our enemy in the present campaign is particularly susceptible to demoralisation when operating in open ground.
One of the difficulties with which the artillery in the present campaign has had to contend has been to find out the extent of our infantry advance for which they are preparing with a bombardment. Asthe Mauser and Lee-Metford render early cover necessary for infantry, it has come about that our infantry, while seeking to render itself invisible to the enemy, has succeeded in making itself almost entirely invisible to our supporting artillery. On many occasions our artillery has ceased fire long before it was necessary, because it became impossible to tell how far our advance extended, for no artillery officer—and rightly so—will run the risk of inflicting damage on his own infantry. The remedy for this state of things has yet to be discovered.
In making public opinions such as these—the opinions of a mere layman—I should feel inclined to make some kind of apology, knowing as I do that they are liable to be read by men whose whole life is devoted to the practice as well as the theory of the use of artillery in the field, were it not for the fact that I am optimistic enough to believe that my remarks will provoke criticism. I am aware that the British officer is not much given to rushing into print, but I am also convinced that he will not sit tamely by when heresies are propagated. If, therefore, the views I have enounced are unsound and unpractical, it is his bounden duty to contradict them. And in doing so he will probably contribute his own views, which will undoubtedly receive far greater attention, from the fact that they are set forth by men actually serving in the field, than if they are kept back till the end of the war, when a successful issue will probably bring with it apathy on the part of those in whose hands rest the destinies of the British Army.