IMPERIAL YEOMANRY HOSPITAL,
PRETORIA.
_Tuesday, December 18th, 1900._
_Dulce et decorum_ 'tis to bleed for one's country, especially to a
small extent, and that is my case. So here I am taking my ease with a
slightly stiff leg, caused by a flesh wound acquired during a lively
rearguard action we had on the 14th, and my hand tied up in a manner to
render writing rather a slow and fumbling ceremony. I always find it
easier to write of the present than the past, so will get through the
events of last week as quickly as possible. On Thursday last we left
Krugersdorp for Rietfontein to join Clements, with the Borders, some
mounted details and useless remounts. Half of our fellows were leading
the latter. We, the remainder, formed the rearguard, and a long,
wearisome job it was. Oh, how those waggons broke down and stuck in
dongas and spruits! At last we got into camp, to my infinite relief, for
the sun had, for once, given me a vile head. All through the day we
heard guns firing, first near us and then distant. The next day we were
again rearguard, and had a rare harassing. The end of that beastly
convoy seemed to lag even more than on the preceding day! And we of the
rearguard, on the kopjes and ridges, watched the enemy galloping round
and up to the favourable positions, potting at them when we had a decent
chance. But they knew the lay of the land, of course, and the closer
they got the more invisible they became. They don't require khaki to
make them indiscernible. Then a single shot would inform us as it hummed
above our heads that one gentleman had got into position, and was
getting the range, then others, and we knew his friends were with him,
and hard at it. Once a few of us happened to be lying in front of a
ridge we were holding, and _at which_ the Boers were potting from
another about 800 yards off. We got the order to retire over the crest
and get better cover and had a warm time doing it. One at a time we
crawled, then, crouching low, rushed back a few yards and dropped behind
a rock for breath and cover. Then back again we dragged ourselves till
the cover was better. Their firing was distinctly good, and several
fellows were hit. On one occasion I dropped behind a small piece of
rock, ostrich-like, covering my head, and almost simultaneously with my
action a bullet struck the side of the rock a few inches from my face
with a nasty _phutt_. That is what it is like on such occasions. That's
the sort of game we played all day, cursing Clements for not sending out
to meet us and give us a hand. We did not know what had happened in the
valley the preceding day. Later we got into an ambush, some of the enemy
being within a hundred yards of us; and had several horses killed. We
thought that the show was over, as Rietfontein was close handy, and the
last time we were there the locality was clear. It was almost dark when
we entered Clements' camp. But where were the tents, the men and horses
that used to be? Presently a figure with a face rendered unrecognisable
by bandages, came up to us. It was Sergeant Pullar of the Fifes, and
from him we had the story of the previous day's disaster. Over half the
Fifes are missing, most of the Devons also, so-and-so killed, and
so-and-so, and so-and-so. Kits lost, and tents burnt. From various
reliable sources I have compiled the best account I can make of the
affair, which we missed by the merest fluke, what men call chance, and
here it is.