The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  So finally, the real truth of war began to drill its dreadful message into Jack. Where were the parades, the bunting hung along routes of cheering crowds, the eloquence of speakers and the encouragement of the clergy? Was this all that remained after man attacked man with unparalleled ferocity? What new insights were gained, what new ground won, what stride forward had mankind made? None whatever. So what was he to make of all this? Very disturbing. He climbed harder trying to put these new insights together, or out of his mind entirely.

  When he stopped to survey the countryside, he saw, down among the carcasses of dead mules and horses, what looked like pinched, black pigmies. Dwarfs? Priests? He blinked. No, just little old men, lurching from side to side as they moved. Having borrowed binoculars for the climb, he raised them to his eyes. Quickly, he dropped them.

  Not dwarfs, not priests — but vultures! Great, ungainly vultures. And what a feast they were having!

  He looked up and saw others gathering. The arrival of a gun party disturbed the gorging and the birds flocked upwards as well: great black bodies and gaunt, bald heads held aloft on their broad wings. Shivers rippled up and down Jack’s back. Putting aside his initial disgust, he realized that without them, the desert would become unliveable. This contagion that bred pestilence, they devoured; this stench that filled his nostrils, they removed. See them as “friends”, he decided, cleaning up the mess that we humans in our ignorance have left behind with our indiscriminate bombardments and murderous weapons. Vultures left just bare bones to glimmer in the desert sunlight as reminders of human folly.

  * * *

  For two long weeks, the Regiment was kept in a state of readiness for any imminent attack, but the only battle they fought was against the elements. The Karoo desert — named after a small prickly thorn bush — offered a harsh environment, one that Jack and his companions found exceedingly unfamiliar. Give me snow and blizzards any time, he thought, rather than this infernal summer heat with those blasted sandstorms and sudden devastating downpours. Even the tent poles, made of iron, blistered the fingers of anyone foolish enough to touch them at midday. And the men soon discovered a new enemy: lice! Not long before these mites infested everything and everyone.

  One night, Jack sat up with a start. He’d lain outside the tent, watching his pipe smoke curl upwards to the myriad stars, so much more crisp and vivid than on the Gaspe. On the horizon, a low crescent moon now shed a little light. But what had he just felt? He jumped up and shook the greatcoat enwrapping him. Out fell a good-sized lizard.

  “Did you creep in for warmth, you little blighter?” Two days ago, sitting on a large boulder to drink his tea, he’d been fascinated by their antics. How fast they moved — in the blink of an eye, they were gone. None in the Gaspe, that’s for sure. But here, every size and type. Later he came and stood by a ring of soldiers who had staged a gladiatorial contest between a tarantula and a scorpion. Should he try to stop it? Did the combatants have feelings like dogs and cats? Oh well, it did make the men’s long hours move more quickly.

  For two weeks, neither Jack nor the others were given water for washing, not even their faces. And as a consequence, no way to wash clothes. But that morning some water had been scrounged, not too clean but acceptable. So while the men were drilling, Jack sat in the entrance of his tent and did his wash.

  A movement caught his eye, and he looked up. Through the empty camp stalked an ostrich. How tame! This ungainly bird, however, finding the campground virtually empty, wandered over and stood looking down at Jack for a good few moments.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ostrich. How d’ya manage to survive in this odd dry environment? I don’t see how you do it. Better you than me, for sure. Give me the green fields and brooks of Canada any day.” And so he chatted on while his new companion, hearing the friendly voice, ambled forward. Then it leaned down. Jack shrank back. It stuck its beak into his soapy water and drank. Good Lord, thought Jack, that’ll make you sick — and you’ll spoil my wash! But then, I guess ostriches survive by drinking anything, so long as it was wet.

  Eight feet above him, the bird turned its head sideways, and looked Jack straight in the eye. Jack flinched. It stooped to pluck his soapy shirt. “Hey!”

  The bird lifted it high in the air and shook it, showering Jack.

  He let out another yell. The ostrich took off with the shirt, emitting its hoarse, sonorous chuckling. Jack leapt up to chase it, but then bent and threw a couple of rocks, whereupon it stopped short and turned to stare at him.

  Oh-oh, thought Jack, now he’s coming back to attack. A good deal taller than Jack, it had black feathers on its back and white primaries on wings and tail. The legendary kick from those powerful legs, two toes on each foot, could finish a man. Its bare neck was pinkish and from the small head, two large eyes stared at him with a fierce intensity.

  Instead of an attack, the bird turned and, dropping the shirt, strode disdainfully away. Jack sighed and went to retrieve his shirt.

  * * *

  More trains from the north passed with wounded, bringing news of what was later touted as Black Week, December 10-15. It began with Major General Sir William Gatacre setting out from Stormberg in a bungled attempt to fight his way through to Malteno. His exhausted force tramped all through the night, lost its way and, not knowing where the Boers were, attacked the wrong kopje. They were soundly beaten; the infantry retreat degenerated into a huge rout. When they got back to safety, they also found they had left six hundred men behind on the slopes of Kissieberg kopje. Those British troops had to surrender to the Boers — what a disaster!

  The day that Gatacre was completing such an abject page in the chronicles of war, Methuen set out from the Modder on the last lap of his bid to relieve Kimberly. His route lay throughout the Magersfontein hills. To take these hills, he sent out four thousand men in a solid rectangle. Eventually they stumbled upon the Boers who had hidden themselves in unlikely trenches dug at the base of the hills. Thousands of rifles were directed on the Highlanders at point-blank range and in less than a minute, hundreds were killed or wounded. The Imperial brigade was turned into a panic-stricken mob and their fine leader Major-General A.J. Wauchope lay dead, not thirty miles from Belmont.

  The news of Methuen’s defeat was given out in London on the Thursday after Monday’s news about Stormberg. Thirteen thousand of their finest troops had been defeated in the open field. It struck England dumb. But more was to come.

  Buller’s army had set out to cross Tugela river and march towards Ladysmith. But the Boer’s agile leader, Louis Botha, had entrenched his forces around Colenso, where they dug in. Cleverly concealed in hidden trenches, they had not been affected by Buller’s bombardment. So once again, the British marched into the arms of Boers whom they could not see and whose strength and position they knew not. The Guards at the Modder, the Highlanders at Magersfontein, and now the Royal Artillery at Colenso, all were sadly decimated. The impact of all this upon England was devastating.

  The Royal Canadians, however, saw in these defeats their chance to prove themselves. But when would they get to do it?

  * * *

  Christmas day arrived. Jack celebrated communion at nine, which was greeted by the men with some satisfaction in anticipation of a splendid meal afterwards. They knew orders had gone down to Cape Town for a blessing of plenty. But it was not to be. Seven chickens and two ducks were all that fed each company of hundred and fifty men. Jack grew even more annoyed at how “his” enlisted men were treated while officers got their surfeit.

  A continuing dearth of good, fresh, clear drinking water exacerbated this discomfort. Whoever was responsible, Jack concluded, was just not doing his job. This time marching straight to the orderly tent, he asked to speak to Adjutant Brown. Was Jack beginning to relish this animosity between them? Well, why not? It kept him occupied, and gave him someone on whom to vent his frustrations.

  “Major Brown, I have to report, sir, that the men are very dissatisfied with what was provided for the
ir Christmas feast!” He was ready for a fight, and Brown surely saw that.

  But the battle did not materialise. “I’m sorry Padre, but all the different regiments sent agents down to Cape Town to requisition supplies. Apparently our own man did his level best, but was unable to get ahead of those Imperial scoundrels, if I may use the term. And then, some equally dissolute groups raided our train and got away with even what he did manage to secure. It’s all part of fighting on someone else’s land, I suppose. Do let the men know we all wanted better for them,” Brown ended with a wry sad smile.

  Well, that did rather take the wind out of his sails; Jack turned and went back to his rounds of the troops.

  * * *

  A moon rose, full and harsh, and sailed across the clear sky while Jack lay listening to Big George wax lyrical about his family. “Martha and Mary, three and five years old,” George went on, “Annie got her parents to look after them while she taught school, because I was in university. We named them after your biblical sisters, Padre.” Jack snuggled down as best he could on the hard ground, head on his greatcoat, and began drifting off. Their other two tent-mates had gone to the central area where they all talked long into the night. “When I’d come home from class, I’d share what I’ve learned at University with Annie. Like you, she loves to hear poems. Funny, I learn them quickly, even after I’ve read them only a couple of times...”

  Jack heard a pause, and mumbled “Uh-huh” to encourage George, lest he’d thought he’d fallen asleep.

  “You know, Padre, she’s so beautiful, Annie. She looks after me like a prince. But I do all I can to help her, too: wash the dishes, oh yes, and I put the girls to bed — Martha and Mary love nothing more than a bedtime story from Poppa. I’m even trying poetry. Nursery rhymes for Mary, who’s the younger.”

  Jack roused himself enough to murmur, “Lucky girls...”

  “We’ve got a big bedroom in her parents’ house where Annie corrects her homework and I do my studies. That’s just the very best time, us together, her preparing lessons, me reading books for my classes.”

  The pause needed filling. “So Big George, why did you decide to join this force?”

  “Well, I joined our local Militia to get a bit of spare cash. I love farm work, but going back to farm to help Poppa — no point. My two brothers, they do all the work that’s needed. So here I was at military camp and I guess not a lot of the fellows were in university, so they put me up to lieutenant as soon as they decently could. More money again. And then this came along. For her part, Annie didn’t like the idea of me putting myself in danger. But it seemed, from all the talk, that it would be a short war, and not very dangerous.” He gave a snort, which turned into a chuckle.

  “Nobody thought conditions would be like this,” Jack agreed. “If only we had decent water, and good healthy food... But then, I suppose as they say, war is war, and you have to take what’s offered.”

  Other evenings, George pushed Jack to talk about his own life. So he spoke about his sisters, especially Lillian who had come to teach with him on the Canadian Labrador. “Now she’s back home, but she’s thinking of going west one day soon. Must have a bit of a wanderlust like me.” He told him about Winnie, going to be a nurse, and Jeannie, the youngest and prettiest. “My older sister, Mariah, married a fella a while ago, Joe, building a sawmill down in the Hollow, as we call it. That’s where my grandfather built his first cabin. He was British, you know. Came over on a warship called the Bellerophon about a hundred years ago. You know, I often wonder why Poppa never talked about it. Maybe because grandfather spent all this time just surviving, just getting our farm started — keeping alive in those times was not easy.” He lapsed into silence.

  “Go on, Jack,” Big George prodded.

  Jack realized that over his short life of ministering, he felt more comfortable listening than talking. But George had revealed so much these nights, he felt he should respond. By now they had become close, making up for a need normally filled by families, or a sweetheart.

  “Our fields stretch right back north beside The Hollow. When we finished haymaking in the head field, we’d jump on the load and lie back, looking up into the sky: such great clouds on the Gaspe, with the creaking of the old wheels as the oxen trundle along. Always a cool breeze off the bay, and if it rains, boy, not like here, you see it coming: cumulus starts building early, huge castles...” He paused, lost. “I have a little brother, Earle, eight, he can pitch hay up with the best of them. He milks our three cows all by himself now. And there’s Eric, the baby.” Again Jack lost himself in a reverie, and then heard a snore. He smiled. Turn and turn about. We talk each other to sleep. Fine way to go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At the end of December, a new British Garrison commander, Lt.-Col. T.D. Pilcher, rode into town, just like one of the old-time sheriffs. He told them the Royal Canadians had indeed done a great job of entrenching the camp, fortifying it against possible attack. So, time for a raid or two.

  Sunday morning, after Jack gave his service at dawn, the usual time nowadays, Pilcher organized a group of men from the Queensland Mounted Infantry and the Royal Horse Artillery stationed nearby, and he picked C company (Toronto) from the Royal Canadians — chosen, the other men complained, because Otter hailed from that city. On New Year’s Eve the raiding party headed northwest for Sunnyside, where Boers were rumoured to be encamped. The rest, including Jack, remained in camp, subjected again to endless drills, and boredom.

  When Col. Pilcher returned, Jack got his first real sight of a Boer war party, forty prisoners. They seemed slovenly: heavily bearded under their slouch hats, no uniforms, of course, just dressed in every sort of getup worn by farmers hereabouts. Their haunted eyes and slouched shoulders showed them to be a defeated lot. But these were the men who had successfully beaten the Imperial Army over and over again. Amazing, thought Jack.

  Earlier, Big George had brought back four Boer prisoners who had been working on their farms. “And they was tough looking buggers, too,” he told Jack, as they watched the men march to a compound. “They left their wives and children behind to work the farms. Willingly they came, you know. We only brought them in to see if we could find out anything.”

  “Dirty dogs,” mumbled Jack. He and George turned away to have lunch at the mess under a large canvas.

  “Aye, dirty they were, but not in any sense you mean — just from working in their fields. How the hell they grow anything here, I have no idea. Hard life!”

  “I guess that’s what produces such good soldiers. Beating the Imperials time and time again.” Jack took out his water bottle and drank. He’d filled it that morning from the special supply of water handed out from a tank car that had finally arrived from Cape Town. Never enough water — they were always thirsty. Often after rainstorms, the troops fell down to drink out of the muddy puddles — water that Jack would not even let his dog drink on the Gaspe.

  “Dunno why they seem incapable of giving us decent water.” Big George shook his head when Jack offered his flask. “After all those good ladies waving handkerchiefs and crying for their sweethearts leaving — little did they dream we’d be abandoned when it came to basic necessities.”

  “Exactly, basic necessities,” Jack agreed. “So those four were sent off in chains to Cape Town, I suppose?”

  “Not at all. Otter sent them back to their farms.” They sat at the wooden tables with others, waiting to be served by orderlies.

  “What!”

  “For sure. They weren’t fighting us. Do you know what the word Boer means?”

  “I think someone told me. Farmer?”

  “You’re right. Farmers all. Just like my own family. We farm in New Brunswick, they farm here.”

  “So they’ve just gone back?” Jack asked.

  “That’s right. But first, they promised they wouldn’t do any more fighting. They took solemn oaths. Where I come from, a solemn oath is pretty good.”

  “So we can rely on the Boers’ mora
ls? Those same fellows who have been attacking Her Majesty?”

  “Those same fellows, Jack. Maybe they weren’t sympathizers of the British — no sir. But they just wanted to stay and work their land, and not be ruled from London. They wanted old Paul Kruger to stay in charge, they told us. You should have heard what they said about Rhodes and that lot.”

  “Well, we’ve come all this way to fight for her Majesty,” Jack paused as a plate of stew was placed before them, “and it is our right, as Christians soldiers, to do what we can to win.”

  George looked at him. “I’d say you’re right, Padre. But they think of themselves as Christian soldiers too, you know. Hard to tell what a man is meant to think.”

  * * *

  A week later, Pilcher, by now their hero, decided to go off on another sortie. This time, he picked another group, which happily included H Company from Nova Scotia.

  Jack decided that if he was ever going to see action, he’d have to fight for the chance. So he got to Pilcher and, after saluting, asked if he might accompany them.

  “So you want to come into battle, eh Chaplain?” Pilcher scratched his head. “It would mean extra supplies... I’m not sure you’re worth it, old boy.”

  At least he spoke honestly, thought Jack, and replied in kind. “Colonel, suppose you run into trouble. Suppose some of our boys are wounded, or indeed killed and need burying? Then you’ll find me a very valuable asset. I can bury the dead as they might expect burial back home in Canada. Would you deny them this? — when you have a ready volunteer standing before you?”