_Monday, September 10th, 1900._
We had _reveille_ at 3.30, and moved off as advance party before dawn.
It was not long before we got into action. In less than a mile from our
camp we found _frere_ Boer, who made his presence known to us in the
usual way, that is, with his Mauser, Express, Martini-Henry, or elephant
gun; of course, the first is his usual weapon. Not to be too
long-winded, we carried ridge after ridge of kopje for several miles. On
one occasion the enemy and ourselves rushed for the top of two different
kopjes, wherefrom to pepper one another. We only just had time to take
cover in a sangar as they opened fire from the opposite hill. Their
bullets buzzed and whistled over us, bringing down twigs from a tree
just by me, and striking the stones with a nasty sound. Later, the
infantry (Worcesters), advancing from behind, began firing over us at
the enemy; indeed, for a little time, we were very uncertain whether
they were not mistaking us for t'others. Anyhow, their bullets came most
infernally close, and necessitated our taking careful cover from the
missiles in rear as well as those in front. At last we came to the
enemy's main position, which was a fine natural one, and our artillery
came into play--we resting for a bit, and the infantry forming up to
advance under their fire. Then hell got loose. Bang, bang, bang went our
field guns; boom went the 4.7; pom-pom-pom-pom-pom went the
Vickers-Maxims; rap-rap-rap-rap-rap-rap went the Maxims; bang, bang went
their field guns; up-um, up-um, up-um went their Mausers; crack, crack
went our rifles. Imagine the above weapons and a few others, please, all
firing, not so much to make themselves heard at the same time (they did
that), but to destroy, kill and maim, and you can guess it was hard for
a poor tired beggar to sleep. I was fagged out, and when we rested while
our gunner friends had their innings, laid down in the blazing noon-day
sun, and, with a stone for a pillow, half-dozed for an hour or so. I was
roused by a comrade to look in front of me, it was a wonderful sight.
About a mile-and-a-half of the Boer position was a blackened line
fringed with flame and smoke, but they were still determinedly trying to
stop our infantry from occupying a long kopje in front of them, and
answering our guns with theirs. That night was almost a sleepless one,
for though dead fagged, we all had to do pickets on the ground we had
won. The next morning Delarey had disappeared, but we know we shall meet
him again.
It is a fine sight to see British infantry advance. With rolled
blanket, and mess-tin a-top, filled haversack, the accursed
"hundred-and-fifty"[5] pulling at his stomach, pipe in mouth, and
rifle sloped (butt up as a rule), Mr. Thomas Atkins of the Line goes
leisurely forward. I do not know yet what the casualties were. Of
the Worcesters who passed us, one poor fellow was shot through the
head, and about ten wounded; we had none, save a nag shot by
Roberts' Horse in mistake.
[Footnote 5: The hundred-and-fifty rounds of ammunition which
always have to be carried by Thomas Atkins.]