There are hundreds of men lying in unmarked graves in African soil to-day
who ought to be alive and well, others who have been done to death by the
crass ignorance, the appalling stupidity, the damnable conceit which will
brook no teaching. I have seen men die like dogs, men who left comfortable
homes in the old land to go forth to uphold the power and prestige of our
nation's flag. I have seen them gasping out their lives like stricken
sheep, just in the springtide of their manhood, when the glory and the lust
of life should have been strong upon them I have watched the Irish lad with
the down upon his brave boyish face pass with the last deep-drawn quivering
sob over the border line of life, into the shadows of the unsearchable
beyond, a wasted sacrifice upon the grim altar of incapacity. I have seen
the kilted Scottish laddie lie, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, waiting
for the whisper of the wings of the Angel of Death. I have seen the death
damp gather on his unlined brow, and watched the grey pallor creep upwards
from throat to temple; until my very soul, wrung with anguish unutterable,
has risen in hot revolt against the crimes of the incapable.
I have knelt by England's fair-faced sons, the child of the cities, the boy
from the fens, the youth from the farm, and watched the shadows creeping
over eyes that mothers loved to look upon. I have seen the wasted fingers,
grown clawlike, plucking aimlessly at the rude blankets as if weaving the
woof of the winding-sheet, and have listened with aching heart to the
aimless babbling of the dying, in which home and friends were blended,
until the tired voice, grown aweary with the weight of utterance, died out
like the crooning of a lisping child, as the soul slipped through the
golden gateway that leads to the glory beyond the grave. I have watched
them pile the earth above the last home of Cambria's sons, the gallant
children of the old Welsh hills. I have seen them laid to sleep, as harvest
hands will lay the sheaves in undulating rows when the summer shower has
passed; and over every shallow grave I have sent a curse for those whose
brutish folly caused the flower of Britain's army to wither in the pride of
their peerless boyhood.
For the men who fall in battle we can flush our tears with pride, and
though our hearts may ache for those we love, yet is there an undercurrent
of hot joy to know they fell as soldiers love to fall, face forward to the
foe. But for those who die, as more than half of Britain's dead have died
in this last war, stricken by pestilence brought about by ignorance and
indolence, we have only sorrow and tears and prayers, blended with hate and
contempt for the triple-dyed dandies and dunces who robbed us of those who
should have been alive to-day to be the bulwark of the Empire, the pride of
the nation, and the joy of many homes.
Why did they die, these strong young soldiers of our Queen? Was it because
their hearts failed them in the presence of hardship and danger? I tell
you, No. The hardships of the campaign only roused them to greater
exertions. Bravely and uncomplainingly they answered every call of duty,
ready by night or day to go anywhere, or do anything, if only they were led
by men worthy of our Queen's commission, worthy of the cloth they wore. Why
did they die? Was it because of poisoned or polluted water, left in their
path by the enemy whom they were fighting? Not so. No, not so. The Boers
left no death-traps in our path. Why did they die? Was it because the
country through which we marched lent itself climatically to the
propagation and dissemination of fever germs? No, England, no! In all the
world there is no finer climate than that in which our gallant soldiers
died like rotting sheep. Wherever else the blame may lie, no truthful man
can lay the blame of those untimely graves upon the climate or the country
of our enemies.
I will tell you why they died, and tell you in language so plain that a
wayfaring man, even though a fool, cannot misunderstand me, for the time
has arrived when the whole Empire should know the truth in all its native
hideousness. Those men were done to death by wanton carelessness upon the
part of men sent out by the British War Office. They were done to death
through criminal neglect of the most simple laws of sanitation. Men were
huddled together in camp after camp; they were allowed to turn the
surrounding veldt and adjacent kopjes into cesspools and excreta camps. In
some camps no latrines were dug, no supervision was exercised. The
so-called Medical Staff looked on, and puffed their cigarettes and talked
under their eye-glasses--the fools, the idle, empty-headed noodles. And
whilst they smoked and talked twaddle, the grim, gaunt Shadow of Death
chuckled in the watches of the night, thinking of the harvest that was to
follow.
Then the careless soldiers passed onward, leaving their camp vacant, and
later came another batch of soldiers. Perhaps the men in charge would be
men of higher mental calibre; they would order latrines to be dug, and all
garbage to be burnt or buried. But by this time the germs of fever were in
the air, the men would sicken and die, just as I have seen them sicken and
die upon a score of mining fields away in the Australian bush; and all for
the want of a little honest care and attention, all for the want of a few
grains of good, wholesome, everyday common sense. Had proper care been
taken in regard to these matters, four-fifths of those who now fill fever
graves in South Africa would be with us, hale and hearty men, to-day.
But, England, you must not complain. "Tommy" is a cheap article; he only
costs a few pence per day, and if he dies there are plenty more ready and
willing to take his place. Don't think of him as a human being. Don't think
of him as some woman's husband and breadwinner. Don't think of him as some
grey-haired widow's son, whose support he has been. Don't think of him as
some foolish girl's heart's idol. But think of him as a part of the
country's revenue. Think of him as "One-and-fourpence a day."
What excuse can or will be made by the authorities for the wholesale murder
of our men I know not. Possibly those high and haughty personages will
sniff contemptuously and decline to give any explanation at all. And you,
who hold the remedy in your own hands, what will you do? Will you at
election times put a stern question to every candidate for the Commons, and
demand a straight and unqualified answer to your questions. Remember this:
You supply the men who do the fighting; the nation at a pinch can do
without a Roberts, a Duller, or a Kitchener, but, as my soul liveth, it
cannot do without "Tommy."
If you want Army reform, you must commence with the "Press gang"; you must
stand in one solid mass firmly behind those war correspondents who have not
feared to speak out plainly. You must send men to the Commons pledged to
stand behind them also, men who will not flinch and allow themselves to be
flouted by every scion of some ancient house; for if you do not support the
war correspondents of the great newspapers, how are you ever to know the
real truth concerning the doings of our armies in the field? I tell you
that you have not heard one-millionth part of the truth concerning this
South African enterprise, and now you never will know the truth. Had the
abominable practice of censorship been abolished prior to this war, most of
the abuses which have made our Army the laughing stock of Europe would have
been set right by the correspondents, for they would have pointed out the
evils to the public through the medium of their journals, and an indignant
people would have clamoured for reform in a voice which would brook no
denial. As things are at present, the military people during the progress
of the war have their heel upon the necks of the journalists, and the
public are robbed of what is their just right, the right of knowledge of
passing events; only that which suits the censor being allowed to filter
over the wires. Had it been otherwise, hundreds of young widows in Ireland,
Scotland, England, and Wales would be proud and happy wives to-day.
But do not let me rouse your phlegmatic blood, my Britons; sit down, with
your thumbs in your mouths, my masters, and allow a coterie to flout you at
will, whilst the Frenchmen, the Germans, the Russians alternately laugh at
and pity you. Pity you, the sons of the men who chased their fathers half
over Europe at the point of the blood-red bayonet! Have you grown tame,
have you waxed fat and foolish during these long years of peace? Is the
spirit that swept the legions of France through the Pyrenees and carried
the old flag up the heights of Inkerman in the teeth of Russian
chivalry--is it dead, or only sleeping? If it but slumbers, let me cry,
Sleeper, awake, for danger is at the gates! Not the danger due from foreign
foes, but a greater danger--the danger of unjust government, for where evil
is hidden injustice reigns.
Our military friends tell us that censorship of Press work is necessary for
the welfare of the Army. They urge that if we correspondents had a free
hand the enemy might gain valuable information regarding the movements of
our troops. To us who for the greater portion of a year have been at the
front there is grim irony in that assertion. Fancy the Boer scouts wanting
information from us which might filter through London newspapers! That
flimsy, paltry excuse can be dismissed with a contemptuous laugh. That is
not why the military people want our work censored. The real reason is that
their awful blunders, their farcical mistakes, and their criminal
negligence may not reach the British public. Just try for one brief moment
to remember some of the "censored" cables that have been sent home to you
during the war, and then compare it with such a cable as this, which would
have come if the Press men had a free hand:
"Kruger's Valley, Jan. 12.
"The ---- Division, under General ----, arrived at
Kruger's Valley four days ago. No latrines have been
dug ... weather terribly hot, with rain threatening.
This Division moves out in about a week. Its place will
be taken by troops just arrived at Durban from England.
Should we have rain in the meantime half the new draft
will be down with enteric fever before they are here a
week, and the death rate will be simply awful. General ----
and staff will be responsible for those deaths."
The military folk would, doubtless, designate such a telegram "a piece of
d----d impudence."
But the latrines would be dug, the camp would be kept free from foulness,
and the new draft would not die untimely deaths, but would live to fight
the enemies of their country.
Why the camps in South Africa were not models of cleanliness passes my
comprehension. There was no need to harass "Tommy" by setting him to do the
work. Every Division was accompanied by swarms of niggers, who drew from
Government £4 10s. per month and their food. These niggers had a
gentleman's life. They waxed fat, lazy, and cheeky. Four-fifths of them
rode all day on transport wagons, and never earned a fourth of the wages
they drew from a sweetly paternal Government. Why could not those men have
been used in every camp to make things safe and comparatively comfortable
for "Tommy," who had to march all day, with his fighting kit upon his back
march and fight, and not only march and fight, but go on picket and sentry
duty as well? Those niggers ought to have, been turned out to dig and fill
in latrines for our soldiers, they ought to have been compelled to do all
the menial work of the camps; but they never did anything of the sort
"Tommy" was treated for the most part like a Kaffir dog, whilst the saucy
niggers led the lives of fightingcocks, and to-day any ordinary Army
Service nigger thinks himself a better man than "Tommy," and doesn't
hesitate to tell you so. It would be instructive to know the name of the
genius who fixed the scale of nigger wage at £ 4 10s. per month, with
rations. Fully half that sum could with ease have been saved the British
taxpayer, and the nigger would have taken it with delight, and jumped at
the chance of getting it. As a matter of fact, the nigger has had a huge
picnic, and has been well paid for attending it. He has never been kept
short of food. He has never had to march until his feet were almost falling
off him. He has not had to fight for the country that fed and clothed him.
Poor "Tommy!"