by Paul Almond
Pilcher put his hand to his chin, and rubbed it. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, Padre, seems a worthy investment. But...” he paused, “are you up to the march?”
“Sir, as I’ve said many times when I first volunteered, I was posted to the Canadian Labrador, and there endured — ”
“The Labrador?” interrupted Pilcher. “If you’ve served up there, you can endure anything. Come along then, and make ready.”
And so, excited but fearful, Jack went off to fight his first battle.
At daybreak the men were ready to start, and the procession wound past the eastern kopjes of Belmont and onto a road that led right into the Orange Free State, the first time that Imperial forces had entered Boer territory. In their kharki, hot puttees, pith helmets, some with puggarees (strips of muslin worn over the helmet to protect the neck) they marched over a desert dotted with anthills, honeycombed by burrowing animals and covered with stones the size of skulls. The landscape stretched to the horizon, but when Jack looked down he discovered the sand strewn with colourful small plants: crimson tufted flowers like heather among the silver grey scrub, and other pale plants he did not recognize.
At last, Jack was coming face to face with Boers in mortal combat. Was he up to it? Without a gun, how would he feel when his comrades got shot, perhaps killed, right next to him? But the thrill of battle was taking hold.
Luckily the day was cloudy, but Jack still found the march too hot and, in fact, exhausting. Mounted scouts spread out on all sides to keep an eye on the kopjes, fifty to two hundred feet high. Jack and the Company marched seemingly forever through prickly bushes, over the harsh terrain strewn with rocks, nothing on the horizon to relieve the tedium save for a few interesting cloud formations in the sky. Hard going.
At last in the distance they made out a windmill nestled in the centre of a rising slope of trees: Witdam Farm, the home of the Orange Free State leader, Commandant Lubbe. Soon scouts came racing back to report they’d seen three Boers galloping away on horseback. So no immediate engagement.
When they arrived, they discovered that the Kaffir servants had just prepared a bounteous meal: joints and knuckles of veal or mutton, heaping dishes of rice and barley, and large boiling pots of tea and coffee. Enough for twenty or thirty Boers, who apparently had left in a great hurry. The Kaffirs, of course, were only too delighted to serve Her Majesty’s men. Just an hour before they had been serving their taskmasters, the Boers, who were not always kind to Kaffirs.
Jack and his friends were quick to take advantage of this lavish spread. As he gorged himself, Jack looked around at the farm. Built of local stone, one story high, it spread out, protected from the desert sun by shade trees, mulberry bushes and pomegranates. Stone walls divided the enclosures, and behind the barn and henhouse, a number of kraals (Africaans for corrals) decorated the sloping kopje.
After the much appreciated meal, Jack sat on the stone veranda to enjoy the cool air and talk with his tent mates, Harry Burstall and Robert Willis, each in charge of a section of H Company. But this pleasant interlude did not last. A scout came galloping back around half past four to report that the enemy was in sight, approaching swiftly over the desert.
Everyone leapt to their feet. Pilcher quickly put together a striking force of two hundred and fifty man and lined up the infantry.
Then came the further news that the farm was surrounded.
No time to waste. The soldiers raced to disperse themselves to their stations and await orders. The Royal Horse Artillery took up a position on the right and the mounted infantry proceeded to the left, while on each side of the farm and at the back, the Canadian Maxims took up stations, rapidly lugged to the top of small kopjes. Half of H Company under Lieutenant Willis supported those guns while half of the Nova Scotians under Lieutenant Burstall hurried to dig trenches.
Jack stayed within the confines of the building with Surgeon Major Fiset, both ready to go out and tend to the wounded. At any moment, Jack expected a party of fierce Boers to sweep through an opening in the circle of hills and to blast them all with a whirlwind of death-dealing lead. The correspondent, Stanley Brown joined them inside.
Moment by moment, Jack felt the suspense mount. The big guns got ready with their rounds of shrapnel, and the mounted scouts ranged about, keeping an eye on the approaching enemy. Jack wished he’d had a rifle; as it was, he just fingered the small cross around his neck, his only weapon, as he heard the approaching thunder of hooves over the veldt.
Nearer galloped the fierce Boer commandos, about six hundred of them, it had been estimated. Around Jack, the men tensed and gripped their rifles.
Nervously, Stanley, Jack and his friend the surgeon, nestled down, hoping the stone walls would protect them.
The command went out to make ready to fire. The artillery crew loaded, and stood poised.
Tense, apprehensive, Jack lay below the window with Fiset, waiting for the hail of bullets that might end their lives. Let it all be over soon, he prayed, let our men acquit themselves royally; let only a few be killed.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the menace vanished. A scout galloped in, crying, “Hold your fire! They’re ours.”
Jack and Stanley rose, as did Fiset. They brushed themselves off cheerfully and went out to get the news.
An Australian force of Victoria Mounted Rifles had been taken for Boers: they were on horseback, wore droopy hats, grey uniforms wrapped with leather bandoliers. At five hundred yards, they certainly looked like Boers. But this possible catastrophe — when they might have shelled their own comrades — had been avoided.
Back at the Lubbe Farm, the Kaffirs prepared yet another meal. They killed a beef and Jack and the fighters all enjoyed a savoury supper, including lots of fowl. After having eaten his fill, Jack rolled himself in his greatcoat and lay out under the bright stars to sleep, thinking of his Kelsie, far away in some crowded hospital.
The next morning, reveille blared out at four a.m. and by six the column was able to move out before the sun got too hot. They brought with them twenty horses and about twenty-five head of cattle and all the contents of the Boer leader’s house on an immense wagon drawn by an ox team of fourteen lovely longhorn beasts. They arrived at Belmont in the evening with their booty to the cheers of the other men.
Chapter Fifteen
After the two forays, the omnipresent boredom of the stay in Belmont weighed on the Canadians. And to make matters worse, Jack was told by the Adjutant, who seemed to have a special gleam in his eye, that the three chaplains’ pay had once again been disallowed, no authority having yet been received for the payment of officers sent out for instructional purposes. Like O’Leary, Jack decided for the moment to grin and bear it. But when he heard Major Macdougall was off to Wynberg hospital on sick leave, he penned a short note to Kelsie. He only half expected it to reach her, for perhaps by now she had moved closer to the lines of battle.
Jack began meeting any train heading south in case he could be of use or give pastoral care. When a train going north pulled up, a short, square-shouldered gentleman in his mid-thirties got off. That large, slightly bald head, heavy black moustache, round face with its dark twinkling eyes — it struck Jack that this man here was the most famous author alive, Rudyard Kipling!
Jack walked straight over to meet the great man, feeling at the same time surprisingly shy and timid.
The writer greeted him. “Well, good morning Padre.”
Jack made his introduction and found out that Mr. Kipling was on his way to the front to observe and perhaps report. He appeared delighted to discover that Canadians were quartered here, for he had done extensive research in Newfoundland — “although those beastly American papers, they keep referring to my work in Captains Courageous as having been done in New England.”
Jack told him, not too eagerly he hoped, that he had read his wonderful Jungle Books, then given them on to his younger brother Earle and his sisters. They’d all read the Barrack-Room Ballads and Jack knew some b
y heart. He’d also heard of the soldiers’ charity, the “Absent Minded Beggar Fund”, named after a Kipling short story title.
The author seemed pleased at the recognition, and offered Jack a clay pipe from the supply weighing down his pockets. But Jack confessed he smoked a well-matured briar and had no need; he recommended that Mr. Kipling present some to the other enlisted men.
Once the troops recognized him, he caused an even greater stir of excitement. He wished them well, and hoped that one day, his son would be old enough to join in such commendable forays. Then as the train began to pull out, he leapt on it, though with pockets still bulging for most of the men also smoked briars.
Jack was tickled pink to have met him in the flesh, another experience he would never have had back in the Gaspe.
* * *
Indeed, every day, trains passed by loaded with troops on their way into battle, while the RCR remained inactive — subjected to more drilling, heat, sandstorms and rainstorms, building trenches, reinforcing walls and stone works, preparing for the ever-present danger of a Boer attack. So a sports day was declared for the following Sunday to enliven camp life, and Jack volunteered for H Company’s football team, having played well at Bishops. How he looked forward to a fine practice! In footraces, the Canadians would be pitched against the Australians, everything from a hundred yard dash to the long cross-country.
On Thursday, the men were excused drill so that they could train for the games, and they chose a deserted area outside the camp. But H Company’s team was diverted by three or four ostriches pecking their way towards the “playing field.”
“Look what we got!” cried their elected leader. “What about a bunch of feathers for the womenfolk back home.”
“Yes sir,” the men shouted, and in a body approached the flock, cautiously at first and then, as they came closer, all broke into a run.
The flock scattered, and seemed to take delight in dodging the men who were scudding about trying to catch one. Men tripped, pushed each other out of the way, fell on the sand, quite a free-for-all. Finally George, the biggest of the team, managed to grab hold of one and get a twist on its neck. The others descended and started to yank out the prize feathers. Jack wondered, was this a fit occupation for a clergyman: robbing a bizarre bird of its only covering? He held back.
The bird gave a tremendous kick, which sent another man reeling backwards clutching his stomach in pain, whereupon they all let the bird go.
Big George came up and offered Jack one of his three feathers. “Something for that sweetheart you haven’t told me about, Jack.”
Taken aback, Jack paused, then replied, grinning, “No such sweetheart, but I have a wonderful mother; she’ll be delighted, if I can just find a way to get it to her.” An ostrich feather. Imagine coming back from a war, a battle zone, and presenting your mother an ostrich feather.
They stood around, laughing and joking, when Jack saw an orderly heading for them with a serious expression. Oh-oh, he thought.
The orderly came up and saluted Jack in his old worn playing clothes: “Sir, report at once to the Colonel!”
Me? thought Jack. What have I done now?
* * *
Jack now faced what he thought must be the hardest decision in his life.
He had just come out of Otter’s tent, where his commander seemed harassed in the extreme, struggling to finish the paperwork flooding his desk. During the short meeting, orderlies and enlisted men kept coming to and fro with more papers, asking questions and generally creating an impression of chaos.
“Chaplain Alford, I’ve had rather bad news. The chaplain of the Hussars has been taken ill, and so has the other fellow, I forget his name. That leaves no one of any faith at the Orange River Field Hospital. A message just came in asking for me to release one of our three. As you are,” he coughed, “perhaps our most important, being Church of England, I’m asking you if you’d mind returning there for a bit?”
“And not follow the troops into battle when they go?”
Otter was peering at the latest dispatch, sighing heavily before looking up again. “What? Oh. Yes of course, that’s what it means. Well, are you up for it, Chaplain?”
Jack was nonplussed. What could he say? “I really came over to be with the troops when they faced the enemy...”
“I know I know, but our worst enemy right now is this blasted fever. Can’t get rid of it. Do you know that twenty percent of our force is down. We’re below strength by a long shot. Well? I’ll have transportation for you in a couple of hours.”
Jack stood silently again, and then found himself saying, “Yes sir.”
“Thank you, Chaplain. Good luck.”
Jack stood outside the tent as more orderlies pushed past. He’d had his three minutes. And now, to the future: hospital duty. He walked slowly back to his tent and there was George, writing a letter. He looked up.
“I’ve just been ordered,” Jack said, “back down the line to Orange River Junction to look after the wounded there.”
George watched with his brown eyes as he tried to absorb the news. “You mean, you won’t be coming with us when we go to the front? But what will we do?”
“Let’s just hope no one gets wounded, or... Anyway, you’ll have Father O’Leary.” By now, Fullerton had been seconded elsewhere.
George shook his head. “Terrible news.”
“Well,” Jack said, “thank you for saying I’m needed.” He could not hide his dejection.
George dropped his eyes. “It won’t be the same in the old tent. And who’ll be waiting — to come out under fire if we ever catch a bullet, or worse, to ...”
Jack looked at him. “...to bury you? Well, I know that’s not going to happen, so you have no worries there.”
“You do? You mean that? You have a real feeling about it?”
What could Jack say? He was very afraid that, yes, that’s exactly what might happen. But he brightened. “Absolutely, George, you’ll be coming back, I know it.”
With that, George gave a little smile and turned to his writing, while Jack proceeded to gather his belongings. It would be a sad parting but likely he’d soon be with these men whom he had grown to know, and indeed love, possibly before they did go off into conflict. At any rate, his was now a very different battle.
* * *
Jack sat, fuming, on the rough front boards of a bullock cart — going at the pace of an ox was no fun at all. The two large and mangy animals wandered along yard after yard, looking neither right nor left, yokes on their shoulders, like wounded veterans themselves. How uncomfortable in that hot noonday sun. However did the loads of wounded make the trips from battlefront to hospital in such vehicles? The cart was splashed with blood.
Arriving in Orange at nightfall, he was assigned a tent vacated by another who had gone back to the front. Much better to face hospital fresh on the morrow, he agreed with the commander, a rather harried young Major clearly over his head in administrative toil.
The next morning, Jack surveyed the field hospital, a collection of tents with anywhere from five to ten men in each: some on knee-high cots, others on rough ground sheets, most suffering from various stages of typhoid. His mind churned. So our fighting lads, coming to defend her Majesty, end up here living out their last agonies from a fever that should have been avoided. Awful.
Most of the doctors were posted near the battlefields and so here, Jack found only two, both overworked and harassed.
He introduced himself to one: “I’ve come,” Jack said, “to minister to the men’s spiritual needs and —”
“— and to bury them, I suppose,” remarked Dr. Jenkins, a heavy-browed and rather hawk-like individual with glasses, who nonetheless seemed to retain some warmth in his fatigued body.
“Yes, to bury them too, I suppose.” Jack shook his head. “Do we lose many?”
“One or two every day. We do our level best,” he told him in a pukka British accent, adding that they found it difficult to achieve much real
healing. “We use Listerine, or another purgative. Or starve them for a week — that’s the cure of choice right now, although I’m not sure I agree. Unfortunately, we’re rather short on morphine.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, I mean anything, to make it easier for you, do let me know.”
“Thank you, Padre. Our Army Regulations permit only orderlies to tend the wounded. Even when I was down at Wynberg, those wonderful Canadian nurses you sent were not, according to army regulations, even able to bathe the poor wretches. That will have to be changed if we are ever to fight another war — which I sincerely hope will not happen.”
Chapter Sixteen
The first few days at Orange River Junction, Jack was rushed off his feet; so many wounded, so many devastated by fever. He found the orderlies a mixed bunch: a few slovenly, a few astonishingly conscientious. And trains kept bringing more and more, some from the Royal Canadians: those too sick for front line field hospitals and not up to the long journey down to Wynberg. British and Australian forces were both treated here and, to his surprise, a goodly number of Boers.
That decided him. He should make an attempt to minister to these supposed enemies. But not without trepidation did Jack enter the Boer compound. He had heard they were a godly lot, but how would they take a clergyman from a different denomination?
After a few words with the supervising orderly, he went in to the Boer compound. He withheld any disgust he might have felt at these evil-smelling brigands from distant farms. They all had the longest beards and haunted eyes, but they did bear pain with great fortitude.
His first patient proved not a success. “Good afternoon, my good man,” Jack said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
The elderly farmer turned his head and fixed Jack with fevered eyes. “I’ll have none of your papist nonsense, thank you. We have our own pastoors. And I have the strength of the living God within me. I pray to Him every hour of the day. No need of the likes of you.” He turned his head away.