_On the Road to Capetown_
_Told by J. P. Kay Robinson, with the British Army_
These experiences of an English soldier in South Africa form most
interesting stories of the brilliant campaigns under General Botha.
They have been gathered into a book under title "With Botha's Army,"
with an indorsement by General Botha in which he says: "It contains
an able and good description of the fine spirit which animates our
Army in German South West Africa, and of the good humor which kept
our men cheerful under most trying conditions." The narrator tells
about "The Occupation of Luderitzbucht"; "Sandstorms and Ceremonies";
"War's Grim Jests and Morals," with numberless anecdotes of human
interest. The few selections here given are by permission of his
American publishers, _E. P. Dutton and Company_, of New York; all
rights reserved.
[8] I--STORY OF THE CARBINEERS IN AFRICA
The story of the campaign of German Southwest Africa is written, plain
for all time, across the sands of that amazing country, and an empty
bully-beef tin, half-buried in the flank of a tawny sand-dune, is
eloquent of most of its detail.
* * * * *
The week that followed upon our second taking of Fort Grasplatz brought
us a passing interest in new arrivals: the Natal Carbineers, the
Pretoria Regiment, the Kaffrarian Rifles, a battery of the Natal Field
Artillery, the Eastern Rifles, the 1st Kimberley Regiment, and--it was
whispered--a brand-new Brigadier with a brand-new Staff to match.
A bare note in my diary states simply that they came. Of the order
of their coming is no mention, but then, not even official records,
I believe, could have lucidly sustained the sandstorm that snarled
over Luderitzbucht throughout the whole of that infernal week. Through
it were caught glimpses, here and there, of herds of baggage-laden
infantry being driven to allotted camping-grounds; of spick-and-span
Carbineers striving desperately to maintain the dignity of their
spurs--and almost succeeding; of kicking mules and cursing drivers;
strings of horses, wagons, guns, more drivers (still cursing), native
scouts, poultice-wallopers (courtesy title of the S.A.M.C.), and all
the rag-tag and bobtail of our amateur army.
A hard-bitten company of the Veterinary Corps drifted down upon us, and
asked if there was beer: they had heard----. We told them, Yes; there
was beer, but there was none now. We were sorry. Whereupon, and without
enthusiasm, they said that it didn't matter, and drifted away, still
searching. Others, but these were of the infantry, forlorn units blown
from all knowledge of their whereabouts, we found huddled under the lee
of buildings. They bleated at us joylessly, and asked many questions.
Was this a sandstorm? Were there many Germans about? and--but this was
inevitable and unvaried--had we found many diamonds?
We would usually tell them that our kit-bags could hold no more,
whereupon they would break down and beg to be taken back to their
regiments. We did not, of course, entertain the slightest knowledge of
their regiments' whereabouts, but, as something was obviously expected
of us, we would indicate variously all four points of the compass, and
they would thank us effusively and merge away, one by one, into the
muffled landscape.
Sandstorms, however, do not last for ever, and there came at last a
day when the unchanged hills looked down upon neat acres of canvas and
a new and startling activity. All of our immediate world was become a
geometric pattern. Wagons, scores upon scores of them, stood axle to
axle in a faultless precision that led the eye along ruled lines to
ordered rows of water-carts and tethered mules. A group of these last
had broken loose, and half a dozen mathematicians with long-handled
whips were chasing them back into equational order. Beyond, again,
right-angled horse lines and a criss-cross pattern of tents which was
the Natal Carbineers' camp played with the Natal Field Artillery's
15-pounders at being an Euclidic proposition. Which, of course, was
absurd.
It has somewhere been said that an Army represents the only true
democracy. This is not true. Nowhere is there so nice a class
distinction as in the Army, and nowhere, perhaps, is that nicety so
candidly maintained. We, the I.L.H., would not at that time have even
dreamed of visiting the infantry, but we called upon the Carbineers
because, simply, they were "mounted men," and as such our equals.
Later, months later, out of the common thirst and the sandstorms--all
men are alike in a sandstorm--there grew the reluctant conviction that
active service brings to pass a sort of socialistic millennium in which
regiments are judged only by their performances, and in which officers
may at times speak quite respectfully to their men, and men almost
respectfully of their officers. That the _moral_ of the mounted man is
usually superior to that of the "foot-slogger" may be attributed solely
to the superior _moral_ of the horse that he rides. This last is an
epigram, but true.