[Footnote 10: An officer, for whom I have the highest esteem,
whilst kindly conveying to me his very favourable opinion of
these "Letters," regretted the inclusion of the following
"grouse" in these words: "When I think of many cheery, dirty,
ragged, half-starved youngsters I met out there, weighted
into an unaccustomed responsibility for men's lives and the
safety of their columns, and no more their own masters than
you were, bravely trying to do a duty which many of them
really loathed, I feel it is hard that a minority of
'rotters' should blacken the good name of the majority."]
As I pause, and ponder what else I can tell you in this letter, it
occurs to me that I have not yet told you of the one great disillusion
of this campaign for me and _all_ other former civilians--I mean "The
British Officer." The few remarks which I am now going to make are
founded on the universal opinion of all the Regular soldiers and
Colonial and home-bred Volunteers I have met out here. I have hesitated
to give this verdict before, because it seemed like rank heresy or a
kind of sacrilege; but having asked every man I have come across,
especially the Regular soldier, his estimate of this person, and always
receiving the same emphatic reply, I feel I can now make my few remarks
without being regarded as too hasty or ill-informed.
There are officers who are real good fellows, and of these I will tell
presently; but there are others--_heaps of others_. These latter are
selfish, and frequently incompetent beings, without the slightest
consideration for their men, and with a terrible amount for their dear
selves. Talk about their roughing it! Most of these individuals have the
best of camp beds to rest on, servants to wait on them, good stuff to
eat, and, more often than not, whisky, or brandy to drink. And, oh, my
sisters, oh, my brothers, when _they_ have to commence roughing it, it
is hard indeed for poor Tommy. Many a tale have I heard of thirsty tired
Tommies being refused their water cart in camp, as the officers required
the water out of it for their baths.
The beautiful stories, on the other hand, of the officer being troubled
because his men were in bad case, and sharing the contents of his
haversack or water bottle with a poor "done-up" Tommy, are generally
pure fiction. To hear of Tommy sharing with a chum or a stranger is
common enough. Out here one learns to appreciate the ranker more, and
the commissioned man less. And when one comes across a good officer, how
he is appreciated! Often when I have asked a regular what sort of
officers he had, and received the invariable emphatic reply, he has
stopped, and in quite a different voice, with a smile on his face, said,
"But there was Mr. ----; now he was a _real_ gentleman." And then he has
waxed eloquent in this popular officer's praises, relating how "he used
to be like one of ourselves," insisted on taking his relief at digging
trenches, came and chatted to them round their fires at night, and in
scores of ways endeared himself to their hearts.
My Rifle friend has just been telling me of such an officer, a young one
they had, named Wilson (how he eulogised Mr. Wilson! "He was a good 'un,
he was. A _real_ gentleman"). He died, poor fellow, up Lydenburg way.
Then he told me of another, a Mr. Baker-Carr; of him he said, "And there
isn't a man of us to-day who, if he was in danger, wouldn't die for
him."
As for the opinion of the Colonials of our officers, you surely know
that. This little anecdote expresses pretty well how they stand one with
the other: