VAALBANK,
_Sunday, August 12th, 1900._
I believe this place is called Vaalbank, though really I am by no means
certain. Anyhow, it looks respectable to have some sort of address, so I
will let it stand.
Yesterday, at Commando Nek, we were rejoined by the rest of the
Composite Squadron, and remounts were brought up from Pretoria (about
300); on account of the latter I am glad that I did not commence this
letter the same evening, for we Yeomanry had to lead them. The brutes
were Hungarians and Argentines. Niggers had brought them from Pretoria,
and then we had to take them on, while the men in need of horses toiled
along on foot. Why they were not allotted on the day they were received
is only accounted for by the fact of our forming part of a British Army.
During the "telling-off" of our fellows to the various groups of sorry
nags, a comrade known as "Ed'ard" and I loafed in rear of the squadron
in hopes of coming last and finding no horses left. We did come last,
but there being eleven horses over, poor Ed'ard had six and I five
Argentines to lead, and the Recording Angel had a big job on.
Half-a-dozen rapid type-writers on his staff would have failed to cope
with the entries entailed by that day's work and discomfort. Some people
boast that they can be led, but not driven. The boast of my Argentines
was that they could be driven but not led. For about three hours I led,
or tried to lead them, at the end of which time my right, or leading
arm, was about four inches longer than my left, and once or twice quite
six. This was when a ditch or some such obstacle had to be overcome. My
own steed, having nobly negotiated it, two of the others would follow
his excellent example, and then the remaining three would pause on the
bank, irresolutely at first, and then quite determined not to "follow my
lead," in fact to never "follow me," would pull back a bit. Then a
lovely scramble would result, in which I would be hauled half-way back,
horse and all, and my rifle, instead of remaining properly slung, would
become excitable, and manage to hang round my neck or waist. Finally a
fairy godmother, in the form of a dirty, unshaven Tommy Atkins of the
line, would come to my assistance, and with a wave of his wand--I mean
rifle--and a thrust with the butt, my troubles for the moment would be
overcome. At last, with my right hand cut and sore, and a temper which
would have set the Thames a-fire, I let go the leathern thong by which I
had been endeavouring to lead them, and started driving them. Other
fellows also commenced to do the same, and after the brutes we raced,
inhaling dust, expectorating mud, and cursed by every transport officer.
Happy men, without horses to look after, were looting fowls and porkers,
for the district was a good one; but such was not for us luckless
Yeomen. Even when we got into camp we had to stand for nearly two hours
in the dark, looking after the brutes till some more Yeomanry, the
Roughs, relieved us, I cannot help it--it's the twelfth, and I must
_grouse_!
[Illustration: A terrible reckoning! Binks (who has just had a row with
a burly Sergeant and got an extra stable guard, and is also 'forit'):
"By Heavens! Wait till I get home and meet him in civvies and he has no
stripes to protect him!"]
Listen to this! When at home in barracks, and on the transport, the
orderly officer always went through the army routine of going round at
meals and asking "Any complaints?" Now that we are campaigning, divil an
officer asks if we have any complaints to make, or is in any way
solicitous as to our welfare or wants. And the consequence is this: we
are at the mercy of our quartermaster-sergeants, who are sometimes
fools, and more often the other thing as far as we are concerned, and
beings known by us as "the waggon crowd," _i.e._: the cooks, and divers
other non-combatants. What they don't want, or dare not withhold, is
given to the poor Yeoman, who has to march, fight, and do pickets and
guards. The man who marches and fights is the worst paid and worst
treated out here. This, it appears, is a way they have in the army. It
is, however, distinctly amusing to hear the _common_ troopers
proclaiming how they will get equal with their officers, especially the
non-coms., when they meet them in the sweet by-and-bye as civilians.
The night we stopped outside Pretoria before coming out this way, our
curiosity was aroused by suddenly hearing three hearty British cheers
from some lines not far from ours. On making an enquiry as to the cause
of this outburst of feeling, we were informed that the battalion had
just received the news that their adjutant, who was absent on leave, had
been made a prisoner by the Boers. Of course, some officers, especially
the Regular ones who have seen previous service, are decidedly popular,
our present General--"Mickey" Mahon--being an instance. There is no gold
lace or cocked hat about him. He is, in attire, probably the strangest
figure in the campaign. Picture to yourself a square-built man of middle
age, wearing an ordinary brown cap (not a service one), a khaki coat
with an odd sleeve, breeches, and box-cloth gaiters, carrying a hooked
cherrywood stick, and smoking a briar, and you have General Mahon.
And now listen to this little story about him. A few days ago a Tommy
was chasing a chicken near a farm on the line of march. Suddenly the
cackling, fluttering, feathered one dashed in the direction of a
plainly-dressed stranger. "Go it, mate; you've got 'un!" yelled the
excited Tommy. Then, to his horror, he recognised the general, and,
confused, tried to apologise. "Not at all," said the chief, and helped
him to kill the bird. Then telling him if he liked he could take it to
his colonel and say the general had helped him to kill it, he sauntered
away.
His favourite corps is the I.L.H., and he seems quite pained when they
miss an opportunity of obtaining good loot, which, once or twice they
have done, owing to a stringent order from someone else against it.
Routine and red tape, though probably not so bad as "once upon a time,"
are still rampant, and we Yeomanry get our full share of them, the
Colonials being more exempt. When we are on the march it is always
"dress up there" or back as the case may be, and the following extract
from a comrade's diary can be regarded as absolutely veracious.
"August 6th. On advance party again. Tried to look for Boers and lost my
'dressing.' Severely reprimanded."
It appears to me that our way for locating the enemy is absurdly simple.
We advance in approved extended order, so many horses' lengths, not more
nor less, if any Boers are about, and we get too close to them, they pot
at us. Then we take cover, if not bowled over; and it is generally known
that there are Boers about.
This (Sunday) morning, I am writing a few lines during a halt--we passed
various farms on our way, which is in the direction of Krugersdorp. We
are in hopes of rounding up De Wet (don't laugh!) At one of these farms,
as we passed, a regular old Rip Van Winkle Dopper Boer was seated by his
door scowling at us, and a trooper who had evidently been sent to ask
for arms presently received, and rode away with _a sword_. It was really
most amusing, probably the dear old man had three Mausers under his
floor boards, and perhaps a bathchair was to be found somewhere on the
premises, in which he could be conveyed to the top of a kopje now and
again, to enjoy the pleasure of sniping the _verdommte Rooineks_, or
their convoy as it passed along.
Monday, August 13th. On this day we made a reconnaissance in force, but
had no fighting. In the evening we had to do an outlying picket on a
near kopje, some long range and ineffective sniping going on as we took
up our position at sunset. The waggon having been left behind (no
unusual occurrence), we went tea-less to our night duty.
Tuesday, August 14th. Off, without any coffee, on advance guard. As we
moved out of camp, revolvers and rifles were banging in all directions.
However, it was not sniping, but merely the usual killing of sick horses
and mules. Along the road the defunct quadrupeds hummed dreadfully (if
any tune, "The place where the old horse died").