Go with the gunners if you want stirring scenes of modern war. You
will not, as so often happens when one goes with an infantry regiment,
spend a day lying on your belly in the scorching sun, while the air is
vocal above you with the singing of bullets from an invisible foe,
whose position is vaguely located on some quiet and deserted-looking
kopje in front. Go with the gunners, and every time you go you will
come back with an increased admiration for them. It is impossible to
tell the result of rifle or even Maxim fire unless, as at Omdurman,
the enemy stand up to be massacred; but with the guns you can at least
see where the shells fall or the shrapnel burst. For this reason the
Vickers-Maxim automatic--or pom-pom, as it was christened at
Ladysmith--must be a most delightfully interesting weapon to the
gunner who operates it. Each little shell on impact throws up a small
fountain of smoke as it explodes, so that he sees at once if his fire
is short or too high, and gets his range immediately; then he can
follow cavalry about and tickle them up, or play around a patch of
veldt where he knows the enemy are lying, just as a gardener would
sprinkle with a watering-pot. It is a most demoralising weapon, but
the explosion is so small that it does much less harm than would be
expected.
Let us take a typical day with the gunners. Photographs or
cinematographs are entirely unsatisfactory in giving any idea of the
"movement" of a battery going into action. There is the rattle of the
gun-carriages, like a running accompaniment of rifle fire; the jingle
of the harness; the splendid, strenuous, willing pull of the horses
straining against their collars. They know all about it, these
bright-eyed beasts quivering with life and work, and want no whip or
spur until the work of tugging over the broken ground under a
sweltering sun staggers them under the strain.
There could not have been a more beautiful day than that of
Elandslaagte for watching the gunners in action. Before the main part
of the action was entered on, two batteries were ordered to reply to
some fire coming from the left of our line of advance. They went
forward at the gallop, bounding, jolting, and swaying over the uneven
veldt, and, on a slight rise of ground showing out against the deep
blue background of some hills, unlimbered and opened fire. A few
horsemen were seen galloping over the ridge of a hill in front, and
that was all. Then they limbered up and were ordered across to our
right; a low but steep little embankment of the narrow-gauge railway
was in front of them. It was a pretty sight to see them negotiating
this obstacle--the jolting of the springless wheels up and down the
stony sides and across the rails on top ought to have been enough to
shake the teeth out of the men sitting on the limbers, and gripping
hard to keep their seats. By the way, how loudly the nether part of a
gunner's anatomy must sometimes cry out for a cushion!
No sooner had they got clear of this jump than the Boer guns opened
and began to make excellent practice. How every gunner felt longing to
reply and silence them! Bang, burst, or spinning with whizzing hops,
the shells came dropping in rapid succession. The Boers had been
careful to get the exact range the previous day, and were not now
wasting time or ammunition. Our guns had to go up a sloping depression
at right angles to the Boer fire before getting into a position for
opening. Every instant was of value, as the Boer shells were now
dropping amongst the Imperial Light Horse and the infantry, who were
just beginning to deploy. Under whip and spur they galloped up the
slope--Gad! it was a sight to see how these artillery horses pulled;
there was no taxpayers' money wasted there. One drops down, and the
sharpness with which he is replaced by one of the spare horses would
have drawn ringing rounds of applause at an Islington tournament. They
take up a position at the top of the rising ground, monopolising the
attention of the Boer gunners as they unlimber.
The gunners jump from their seats sharp as sailors, unhook the
limbers, leaving the guns pointed towards the enemy. Then the drivers
trot off about fifteen yards, wheel round, and sit motionless on their
horses, facing the fire. One cannot but admire the courage required to
sit coolly like that with nothing to do but watch the enemy firing
deliberately at them--see the discharge, and then await the arrival of
the shell as it comes whirring and hurtling through the air. With what
critical interest they must watch improvement in the enemy's
shell-bowling! One was forcibly reminded of cricket bowling at
Elandslaagte. Many of the shells did not burst, and those that were
not full-pitched came in the manner of swift bowling along the
rounded, almost flat-topped surface of the rising ground; and these
gunners sat as steady as if they were the wickets just stuck in the
ground, with never a duck of the head or a blink of the eye. The men
working the guns are kept busy all the time, and have no time to think
of or watch the enemy's shells; but the drivers have nothing to do but
wait and watch. The horses, with still heaving foam-streaked sides,
stand panting and tossing their heads. The Boers have got the position
of our batteries accurately, as it must have been previously obvious
that it was the one we would have taken up. Three of the gunners have
already been badly hit; immediately after, with a terrific crash, a
shell hits an ammunition-waggon fair. Those around hold their breath
for a still greater explosion, but, wonderful to say, the ammunition
does not explode. When the dust has cleared, however, the wheel of the
waggon is found smashed to matchwood, and the vehicle lies helpless
and useless on its side. But still steady as rocks sit the drivers
facing the music. This is courage--the real article--and the market
price of this kind of British pluck is one and twopence a day!
Three days later I was photographing these boys behind their guns on
the hill at Rietfontein, standing just as quietly under a hot rifle
fire at 1200 yards' range, which the enemy kept up persistently,
although we had silenced their guns and actually set fire to a long
line of grass on the hill from which they were firing. An innocent,
harmless-looking hill it seemed, with not a Boer visible on it, yet
the bright summer air simply sang with the notes of Mauser
bullets--clear and musical notes when they pass high overhead, but
with a sharp and bitter ping when they pass close.
But the best sight of all is to see our gunners going out of action.
They go in at a gallop, and retire at a walk. There is something so
delightfully contemptuous of the enemy's marksmanship in this. One day
outside Ladysmith was typical. A couple of batteries went out with
some cavalry for a small reconnaissance in force, located the Boer
gun, and quickly drove the gunners to cover. The vultures had gathered
as usual at the sound of their dinner-gong, but there was no fight,
and soon the guns limbered up, and turned back across the plain.
Immediately the Boer gunners were back at their gun, and, serving it
with wonderful rapidity, sent shell after shell at our retiring
batteries. The first was just short, then the two next went over; but
on they went quietly, never breaking out of the walk. Then a shell
fell between a gun and a limber, and did not burst. The great vultures
wheeled and circled lower, waving their shadows below them on the
parched plain; but there was no dinner for them that day--not even a
horse was hit. And so always, when these field guns stop barking and
limber up, it reminds one of pulling a dog out of a fight by the tail
as they are dragged slowly, as if reluctantly, away; while the drivers
don't bother to look round, and don't look a bit like heroes full of
courage at the magnificent price of one and twopence a day.
Rattle of iron on stones--clear, sharp words of command--clink of
breech action--coldness of iron will warming the steel throat that
voices its thoughts--hard, scientific, inhumanly mechanical; yet there
is a subtle, attractive feeling that draws together the living
elements that serve the gun. I barely escaped being knocked down one
day by an artillery horse galloping furiously over the veldt. He had
got badly torn by a shell; wild with the pain, he raced around until
exhausted, and then, managing to stagger up to a gun, fell dead, with
his head against the trail.
V