by Paul Almond
Then he heard, “Padre! Good to see you.”
“Corporal Ferguson!” He handed his soldier on to an orderly and threaded his way back to the limping man.
The Corporal still had not shaved; his long black beard resembled those of the Boers, but now so did his haunted eyes and almost vacant expression. Terrible things a war does to a man, Jack thought, no matter on whose side he fights.
Jack started to press him for news but the Corporal needed no pressing. Obviously hoping for someone to listen, he launched out: “Padre, you don’t know what we’ve been through. First, that march with ole Black Bill to catch up with Smith Dorrie at Graspan, and that next day with ’em all to Ramdam — blasted kharki, it wrecked your skin between your legs, stiff, chafing, and those damn useless shoes... Mine were gone even then.” His bottled up feelings poured forth. “We all carried our rifle, bayonet and a forty pound kit, including a greatcoat. We needed water and supplies, so we had to follow a bunch of oxcarts, overloaded of course, stopping and starting, breaking down. Twelve miles that day over a dusty veldt, temperatures well over a hundred, I swear.” Ferguson winced and motioned Jack over to one of the station benches.
Jack helped him hobble across and they both leaned back against the stone wall of the terminus.
“Well, by the time we reached Ramdam, mid afternoon,” Ferguson’s voice was dry, raspy as sandpaper, “we was just so, so thirsty, I can’t describe it. To make it worse, you know what they gave us for lunch? Salt pork and dry biscuits! Like a bunch of animals, we herded around that dirty dam up there. And then, along with them mules and horses, we lay on our bellies and drank — water at home no man would wash his hands in.”
Disaster, Jack thought; if someone as tough as the Corporal was now beat, what about the others?
Like the haunted sailor in the Ancient Mariner, Ferguson pressed on. “Next day, Wednesday, we left Ramdam at four thirty in the morning, thousands of us — on reduced rations if you can believe it. We made Watervaal Drift about mid morning, dead tired. My poor feet was burning, blistered all over.” He shook his head, and leaned back, eyes closed. “Ten minutes after we arrived, we had to go on fatigue, shoving transport wagons across the Modder River and up the opposite bank. We’d had no breakfast, well, a bit o’ coffee and biscuit before we left Ramdam. No dinner at noon, either, we worked right through till we shoved that last overweight wagon up the hill.” He paused, lost in the awful memory, and his shoulders sagged.
Jack sat fascinated, but also horrified.
“Well at least we’ll get supper, we thought, and a good rest. But didn’t we have to get right back at it and lug over them big naval guns? Such big brutes, we attached ropes, five hundred of us, I’d say. So we didn’t flop down till eight — too late for supper, we just fell asleep, hungry and all.”
Jack couldn’t stop an exclamation escaping his lips.
The Corporal, in spite of his tale, forced a grin. “Yep, and one thirty in the morning, I had to roust out the men and start marching again, still not a bite!”
“Unbelievable!” Jack paused as an orderly came down the platform with a big bucket of water and a cup, giving each a drink of water. “So how far did you have to go then?”
“Eleven miles this time. We stopped by the Modder again and at last got to eat, a bit of bully beef and biscuit. Then I did picket duty all night, without a wink of sleep, ’cause I knew the other poor fellas couldn’t. I heard firing from the front, but the hills blocked me from seeing any.
“Came in from picket duty at daybreak, and Padre, that whole camp was under arms, ready to march. By the end of that day, we reached Jacobsdal. I couldn’t ’a walked a step further.”
“Jacobsdal, that’s a good way up the line. Towards Kimberly?”
Ferguson shook his head. “That’s northwest. But us, y’see, Roberts wanted us heading for Bloemfontein, a good way East.”
“What’s it like, Jacobsdal?”
“Fine little town, maybe twenty-five hundred people — well... before the battles. Their church, big stone building, full of Boer wounded, and our wounded as well. You know, they had Boer doctors and nurses — just great at treating us all, too.”
“So you stopped there? They fixed your feet?”
“No, no hospital for me, I thought, I’ll rest here, and then go on with the lads. Didn’t want to let anyone down. I laid around a spell with boots off, but when I went to put ’em on, couldn’t walk a step! So I cut out the backs...” He shrugged. “They felt a bit better.
“Four times we had to fall in on false alarms. Transport broke down and we got nothin’ to eat — again! So they said we could catch any sheep or goats. Our boys caught a goat, yes sir!” He gave a hoarse laugh. “Skinny as anything, but we got it cooked and you know what? Got another order to fall in right away — and we had to throw the damn thing out.”
“They wouldn’t even let you eat first?”
“No sir, pack the kittles! But just as soon as we lined up, another false alarm. Lord, we were tired, but the lads caught a sheep this time. Cooked it and we got her half eaten and lay down — dead ready for sleep! Most of us, we’d only had an hour or two in three nights, and doing the hardest kind of work. But at two in the morning, Saturday, we’d just laid down when — listen to this — we got another blasted order to bale the blankets and fall right in again!
“Now sir, you try struggling over that veldt by moonlight, steering clear of thorns, stones, humps, well they were termite hills, I guess, and other stuff in the dark. We stopped at four in the morning, just by the muddy Modder. We was so tired, I didn’t even loosen my tunic, just dropped like everyone else, out cold. General French was having a brush with the Boers just a mile ahead. But we got nothing to eat again till five in the afternoon, and then it was only tea and biscuits.”
Played out, the Corporal needed help. Jack went to rise, but Ferguson held him back: he had more to tell.
“Loud were the lamentations and many the curses, you can imagine, when we were told to march that evening at six. My feet was done, finished. The fellas, they went on to Paardeberg Drift but I got sent back. Couldn’t do nothing else. See, look.” He lifted a leg and hauled off the remnants of a boot. The other was heavily bandaged.
Even without looking Jack knew what the Corporal and his squad must have endured.
“Next morning, no breakfast in sight, so another fella and myself, we struck for the river. Got across to a field hospital and managed to get dressed by a doctor. Awful mess around there, hundreds lying about outside, all kinds of wounds, and doctors in shirtsleeves, but not nearly enough, dressing them.
“Next day I started for De Aar by mule wagon and travelled all night. In the morning at Klip Drift, we changed bullock wagons, but Padre, we had to lay there, underneath them for shade, all that burning day long. We only travelled at night so off we started, rough it was and freezing — cold rain soaking us to the skin. Others, worse wounded than me, you could hear them yell, what a time they was having, for sure.” Ferguson trailed off, closed his eyes, and lapsed into silence.
Jack was stricken himself — what a tale and a half. As an orderly hurried by, Jack grabbed him, made him see to the Corporal, and went on to minister to others as needed.
He could not imagine sending troops into such an important battle, under these conditions, after so many horrifying days on the march. Surely, troops fought battles after they were rested and well fed? He found it hard to grapple with the truths that this conflict was beginning to force upon him.
* * *
After a traumatic day of helping soldiers to their hospital cots and generally organizing what he could, he foresaw he’d have to spend the night, for more trains would be arriving the next day.
But first, at dawn, burial duties. A young Bugler led him to their latest burial site. Head spinning with dreams stirred up by the first hard news of the campaign, he allowed himself to speak without thinking. “I suppose, Bugler, like most of our other boys here, you have been
aching to get to the front for the real fun.”
“Fun?”echoed the Bugler, a tall adolescent with short blond hair and blue eyes. “I’m perfectly happy back here, Padre, even though I have to blow at these never-ending burials. Up there with them Mauser bullets whistling, watching your best friend shot, brains spilling all over you, no sir, I...” He stopped as the words choked in his throat.
“I’m sorry, I spoke without thinking,” Jack affirmed.
“You know, Padre, I came here, all happy and ready to fight for Her Majesty,” he said. “But what I’ve seen makes me sick. Last time I blew the call for a charge, it near stuck in my throat — sending so many fellas I knew to their deaths: sons, husbands, and lots of lonely fellas never even knew a woman. All for good Queen Victoria. I wonder if she knows what damage her bloody government is causing, the lives it’s wrecking.”
They reached an already-dug gravesite and waited for the oxcart with its lifeless burden.
“I wouldn’t blame Her Majesty for all this,” Jack said. “I do believe, from what I hear, the Boers might have brought it on themselves.”
“Aye, but there’s not a few fellows talking about the diamonds and gold they have hereabouts.”
“Well, we’re on duty now, Bugler,” Jack replied, reflecting that his job was to keep the morale up as best he could. “We should put thoughts like that out of our minds. I’d rather wait till I get home and do some proper thinking in the calmness of my rectory. Such sentiments here may just kill our initiative and help the enemy. I believe now we must win, and get as many as we can back home safe.”
The young Bugler eyed him. “As you say, Padre, we have our duty, and we’ll do it. But me, I got no quiet rectory. What am I going to do in the Old Country? Keep blowing, I guess — thankful I got this job and a warm barracks, and pay I can send home to me Mum who’s scrubbing floors. T’weren’t easy to learn all them bugle calls: we got almost two hundred. My favourite is ‘Lunch’ — what you know as ‘Come to the cook house door, boys.’” Of course, Jack did know that one.
At last the oxcart lumbered up and orderlies lifted out two bodies. Wrapped in simple canvas, no question of coffins, they were lowered into this grave dug by the burial party the night before. A cross had already been erected, and Jack knelt to check their names, carved in the wood by friends. Then he rose and began to read the Burial Rite from the Book of Common Prayer.
* * *
When the next trains carrying the wounded from Paardeberg arrived in the station, Jack was there to greet them. Those who could walk needed help to reach the field hospital, and those who needed transportation, he began to supervise. The doctors were back at the hospital making ready for this new onslaught, and the job of organizing arrivals seemed to have fallen upon him. He grasped the reins of organization easily and even developed a knack for getting things done without treading on toes. In fact, most responded well to his taking charge and his many encouragements.
When the last little train of the day came chugging into the station and its carriage doors emptied out the wounded, Jack glimpsed a familiar face in the back of a cart rumbling by.
“George!”
The body stirred, lifted its head over the sideboards, and brightened momentarily. “Jack!” Then big George Dorsey sunk back, silent.
Jack felt an icy hand clutch at his heart. Big George had been wounded, and badly. Jack had always feared that this day might come. But now, the face of war had taken on a new and even more personal look.
Chapter Twenty
That night, Jack made straight for George’s bedside. Lifting a lantern near and putting his campstool beside Big George’s cot, he touched his hand.
His eyes opened, though his stare was fuzzy.
“So they got you, those bloody Boers.”
George nodded. “They got me good, Padre.” He grinned weakly. “But you found me...”
“Has the Doctor seen you?”
“Just been. From the look on his face, not much he’ll do for me. He gave me something to drink and a potion to help me sleep.” He was silent for a while; the effort of speaking tired him. “Got an orderly to dress my wounds. See, I got hit in two places. Leg and stomach.”
“I’ve seen a lot of wounded here, George. A leg wound such as yours, which didn’t break any bones, they’ll get fixed in no time, you watch.”
“I know that, Padre, it’s the stomach they worry about. Shrapnel ball went right through. Did some awful damage, the doctor said.”
“Shall I fetch water?”
“No Padre, listen, I’ve decided. One thing I have to do. My daughters, when they grow up, they’ll have to know how I went. Because they’ll have to stop another war like this. They’ll have to speak up. Their generation, they can’t have this happen. What we faced. Annie, she’s got to tell them, when they get of age. It’s all I can leave to them now, and the other farming families around us. Boys like me, growing up. They can’t be let go. No war ever again. See, I’m finished, Jack. It’s over for me. But you...”
Jack winced. He prayed it be not true. “The newspaper dispatches will reach Annie, she’ll know. They’ll hear — ”
“No!” George reached out to grip Jack’s hand. “No, Jack, not general stuff. My stuff. Write it down. My last words...”
“Now now, we’ll have none of that kind of talk; we’re going to get you better.” Jack tried to sound encouraging.
“Does that mean you won’t write?” Jack could see the brown eyes go dark and his life force ebb.
“Yes, yes, George, of course I’ll write. Every word.” Keep that spirit alive, give him a hope — the one thing that saved so many patients clinging to life. “I’ll be right back with pad and paper, I’ll get it from the orderly room, you just watch.”
When Jack returned, he had scarcely sat when Big George began. “I’m starting with Paardeberg, because that’s when we...”
“Won our big victory, I know George, everyone’s talking about it. You’re all heroes.”
He smiled weakly. “You’ll send it to her?”
“Better still, George, I’ll take it, I’ll deliver it in person. You’ve given me your address. But look, you’re going to make it, I’m sure — ”
“Jacko, no need for that. I’m going. Just, get it down... I’ll talk slow.”
Jack replied, after a pause, “All right, Paardeberg...”
George nodded, collected his thoughts. “We got there, worn out after the marches, after the lack of food, like dead, in fact, but then we heard the first shooting, about two miles ahead. No time for tea or coffee — they gave us a shot of rum, and we struck out to find the enemy.
“First, that Modder. We had to wade through. Stretched ropes, slung our rifles, put everything in our pith helmets and we took that river, chin high. The current, Jack, it was so strong — horses and riders, they got pulled under, and down stream; transport wagons, mules drowning.
“Well, we got to the bank and headed for the firing line on the double. Not long before we had to drop, those Mauser bullets came whistling, thick as hail. See, the Boers were hidden behind rocks and bushes on the banks, so we’d hardly seen one all day.”
“You were all alone, you Canadians?”
“No no, we were mixed up with Black Watch, Seaforth Highlanders, a few of the Gordons. The Cornwalls, about three hundred yards behind. We lay there, pinned down, all day in that heat. Then about four, we heard the Cornwall’s colonel call ‘charge’. They fixed bayonets and started the rush. As they passed us, their colonel called out, “Come on Canada!”
“So we up and joined in. The Boers ran off, but stopped on the higher bank and poured on such a rifle fire! Just the flat desert we had to cross. Halfway to their trenches, I saw the colonel of the Cornwalls shot, right through the forehead.
“I ran on till the men ahead o’me went down and I saw we’d never gain the position. Too far, through that deadly fire. Bloody madness, his order. I dropped and scooped out some sand to kind of hide in. I lay
still so’s not to attract attention, but fellows around kept up their awful screaming. That sure drew the Boer’s fire — from three sides of us, right up till dark. I expected my ticket every second, Jack...
“Those three daylight hours from our charge till dark, so long... So many right close by, wounded, what a noise: screaming, some dying, some praying out loud, others cursing their luck. Such a row. And the smell! You soil yourself when you’re hit, eh?”
Jack could just imagine the carnage, some of which he was seeing here in the hospital. No longer the grand celebration, the big send-off, the bands and the cheers. Just blood... and death.
“Those stretcher-bearers, Jack, they worked out there on the veldt, all day long under that hot sun, the bullets flying past, and them binding wounds, getting last love messages... But Jack, so many fellows died without a soul to hear.” A sigh escaped him. “And we kep’ on fighting, firing, holding tight, right through that intolerable heat, until we saw the slopes of the nearest kopje washed red in the blood of the dying sun. Sixty-seven casualties.”
George lay back, his energy — fired at first by the excitement of his remembrance — now deserting him. Jack sat, looking down.
“After dark, I crawled back on my stomach, gosh, four hundred yards or more.” He shut his eyes. “Haven’t even gotten to the second, the main battle, but...”
Jack nodded. “Don’t even try to talk about it now.” He rose. “I’ll be back, George, I’ll be back tomorrow. With my pencil. Sleep now; do you good. And I’ll be back.”
Was that a wisp of a smile crossing Big George’s lips? His breathing grew slower, as he fell asleep.
* * *
All that night, Jack, himself wounded in soul as they in body, ministered to the injured, some on stretchers, some on the ground, all in pain: a picture that would hang forever on the walls of his memory. Boys and men, sixteen to forty-five. At one cot he began to kneel, but saw that the fair-haired boy had breathed his last, a grimace from the horrible wound frozen on his face. Only a lad, maybe sixteen, dead before he had even entered manhood.