by Paul Almond
Monday they attained Klip Kraal, and Tuesday skirmished and dislodged the enemy from the Waterworks. Tuesday evening, Jack had brought along his prayer book, of course, and as they prepared to bivouac for the night, he got it out. He saw that the sun was now dipping into the horizon, so he stood up and led a short service of Evensong. He felt gratified to notice that quite a few of the men took note and rose to stand with heads bowed, repeating the Lord’s prayer. He invoked God’s strength in their righteous crusade and called down his blessing on their noble enterprise. He could hardly believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, but then he was here to do a job, and a job he would do: the more courageous the men, the sooner this whole mess would be over. He also felt sure that knowing their Lord stood beside them meant that the regiment fought harder, attacked more courageously, and were thus emboldened to press on to a speedy victory.
After they had settled down, he closed his prayer book and made his way through the company.
A young private jumped up as he came by. “What’re ya looking for, Padre?”
“I’m almost too embarrassed to say,” Jack confided.
“The latrine is that way.”
“No, it’s the Bugler I want...”
The Private peered into the gathering gloom and then pointed him out. Jack went over to crouch by the young man, who also had blonde hair like the one Jack had worked with at the Orange River Field Hospital. I wonder if they all have blonde hair, he thought to himself. “Bugler, I’m hesitant to ask, but the call for ’charge’... Would you mind just humming for me? You see, I’ve never been in an actual battle. That’s the one thing they didn’t teach me at university, nor when I was appointed chaplain” He chuckled in spite of himself.
“Well, of course, Padre.” The young soldier proceeded to give a good simulation.
Jack nodded. “Again, if you wouldn’t mind.” The Bugler blew through his lips, imitating a bugle sound two or three times until Jack was sure he had it.
“Thank you, Bugler.” Jack began to rise.
“Wait!” the Bugler said. “Don’t you think, sir, I should give you the call for ’retreat’? I know we hope it’ll never be needed, but wouldn’t it be funny if I blew it and you thought it was ’charge’ and went racing off in the opposite direction toward the enemy?” He chuckled, and Jack joined him.
So the Bugler imitated for Jack the call for a retreat. After Jack had gotten that settled, he gave voice to a few other different ones that might come in handy.
Jack patted him on the shoulder. “You know, chaplains don’t really get enough preparation for this sort of thing, I’m afraid. Most useful! Especially in battles, attacks, and so on.” He was surprising himself by how much energy he was throwing into these endeavours, accompanying the troops and cheering them up.
He went back to his place near Harry Burstall and Robert Willis, rolled himself in his greatcoat, and fell asleep, contented.
* * *
The first time Jack heard the bugle’s sharp demand to charge for real was the next day, in the battle of Yster Nek, or Israel’s Poort. The Boers had been spotted on a line of kopjes. Now the Royal Canadians had to clear them from their easily defended positions before undertaking the major objective, Black Mountain. All morning, they had advanced warily, and now lay waiting in a shallow donga, or washed out gully, for the order to attack.
About three in the afternoon, an order came to proceed under heavy fire in open ranks at fifteen paces. With the Boers raining down a deadly and continuous fusillade, they stopped at a wire entanglement about seven hundred yards from their objective. Jack saw that to advance would be as great a folly as that ordered by the now dead Colonel at Paardeberg. Much more sensible to retreat, but then the Captains of the Companies, Harry Burstall included, leapt up and did a marvellous job of steadying the men. Colonel Otter himself came up to check the anxiety felt, not just by Jack, but everyone. He was unhappily spotted by the Boers, which occasioned a storm of bullets, one penetrating his neck within an inch of the jugular. But only at the end of the day did brave old Black Bill retire to a field hospital.
For over an hour Jack lay with the others, awaiting the clarion call to charge. They waited, and they waited. I think, Jack said to himself, this is worse than the coming rush into that hailstorm of lead! His heart kept pounding: thump thump thump, against his chest, making him lose his train of thought. When we charge, do I run zigzag? How long before I get hit? Will they mow us all down? Me included? And then what? But after a good deal more agonizing, Jack heard the bugle blare and they charged.
With the snapping of bullets all around them as the Mausers opened up, Jack felt his first twist of panic. And why not? “Into the valley of Death/Rode the six hundred.” Lord Tennyson had that right, no doubt about it, thought Jack, as the Charge of the Light Brigade sprang into his mind. How apt, oh yes. He was looking straight into those two blank but frightening eyes of death itself.
He remembered to zigzag, his panic spurring him even faster. Don’t you strike me, he breathed, don’t you dare hit this healthy body, you killer bullets, you Mausers of death, go past, hit none of us, as on and on he ran and on and on he talked — willing himself through the desperate onslaught.
The faster he ran and the closer he got to those murderous muzzles, the less he spoke and the more fear grabbed at his innards and frazzled his brain. He was charging with the others right into Boer rifles pointing dead back at them. Count on his Saviour? No use. If a bullet were meant for him, take him it would, oh yes, no doubt about that! Too many fine young men, far finer than him for sure, had met their end.
He flashed on his Old Homestead, on Poppa and Momma, but that only frightened him more — the thought he might never see them again, stabbing him with such a sharp agony that he quickly put them out of his mind.
It’s always the worst, he’d heard that, this first charge, it’s always the worst. You’ll get used to it. Yes, he shouted, I’ll get used to facing death. My first battle, no blame — I’ll get used to it. He realized he was yelling as he ran.
Oh-oh, Jack found he was a good bit ahead of all the others because he carried no rifle, no ammunition belts, little to weigh him down, and his rugby training gave power to his legs, agility to his feet, dodging the stones and bushes. He had almost welcomed the good sprint. But no, it would not do, look, he could even see the Boer farmers as they popped up, took aim, fired, and dropped out of sight. His own troops behind him banged away at them, one after another. So he slowed down. And just as he did, he saw the other front runners drop. Hit? No, the rapid firing had become too intense. They knew to drop to the ground and to fire back as lesser targets. Jack followed suit.
Then he saw them crawl forward on their bellies and he did, too. But without the adrenalin of a breathless sprint, the situation struck him with even more force. Any one of these bullets whizzing past, spurting sand when they bit into the ground, or twanging off rocks — any one of them could end his life, right here and now.
Stop! Don’t think of dying, think of winning, concentrate on crawling, look where you’re going, creep up fast behind an anthill or any boulder.
All at once, he heard a chilling scream to his left. The others kept moving forward on their bellies, as if nothing had happened. Of course, someone got hit, but what could he do?
Jack frowned. What should he do?
He turned left, crawled as fast as he could, reached the soldier who was crying out, writhing. What now? Bring him back to a doctor, of course. Fiset would not be far behind, he knew that. He grabbed hold of an arm, began to pull, but that only caused an anguished yell.
He stopped. Then he crawled closer. He rolled over, lay on his back, pulled the lad as gently as he could onto his chest, turned toward the rear, and with his feet propelled the two of them over the rough desert, through thorn-bushes and around rocks. It tore his uniform, scraped his back, hurt his neck, but he kept going. Suddenly, he found himself going downhill and they dipped into a slight donga, w
hich meant they would both be safe for the moment.
Panting heavily, he let the soldier roll off onto his side. The Private had lost consciousness, but was still breathing.
Now, what do I do? thought Jack. He’s safe here for the moment. They need me up ahead. More will be hit, some may be killed, I must get up there. Then, he decided, first go back, find a stretcher-bearer. He’ll know what to do. That’s their job. They’d come get the poor wounded lad.
He rose onto all fours and turned for one last look, and to orient this position. Something about the lad’s body stopped him. He crawled closer, put his head to the man’s chest.
No breath. No heartbeat. No life. He knelt over the body and said a prayer for the ascent of his soul. This young soldier, most likely the darling of someone far away, had died in the sand without even the touch of a loving hand. He now lay, gazing blankly upwards, never to see the Southern Cross, which would soon emerge to christen the night. Would he sleep as well as under the snows of Canada? A sigh escaped Jack. Then, dropping flat, he made off on his belly after the rest of the men who were now rapidly approaching the enemy Boers.
The charge, and the overwhelming Imperial force backing them up, meant that the Boers finally called the retreat, and Jack could see them taking off. Later that evening, General Smith-Dorrien came to congratulate the Canadians.
But the battle for Thaba ’Nchu, the Black Mountain, lay ahead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next morning, the acting CO, Major Buchan (“Good Old Larry”) marched the exhausted Regiment now called The Fighting Brigade, six miles to the base of Black Mountain, two thousand feet high, the most important kopje on which the Boers had entrenched. From Bloemfontein the RCR had fought doggedly forward, overtaking the Boers, clearing them off vantage points, erasing their presence to permit the vastly superior force under Roberts to march onwards towards Pretoria.
For another three days the company skirmished, attempting an assault but failing, and even attacking and gaining Eden Mountain, but having to withdraw. On Sunday Jack was not required to fulfill his service commitments. But when he heard from the little village of Theba ’Nchu below, its church bells calling the villagers to worship, how he longed for his own St. Paul’s Church in Shigawake and its little bell tolling an invitation to worship across a snowy countryside.
The day before, the Canadians had fought their way across open country bombarded by Boer guns at Thaba Mountain and Hout Nek. The Boer Gunners directed their artillery on the Canadians as they advanced, sending shell after shell with unexpected accuracy into the advancing line. Men were stunned, knocked down, one even tossed in the air, but only one killed. A real baptism of fire.
That night, with only two biscuits and tea for two days, Jack and his companions bivouacked for the night, cold, tired, and hungry. They had no blankets and the night was piercingly cold; they had to maintain absolute silence for fear of attracting the enemy’s attention, and avoid lighting fires for the same reason. Jack munched his hard tack, and huddled, shivering with cold, waiting for the morrow and more fighting.
Now at dawn, gathered part way up the hill, the men, Jack among them, crouched among boulders. First thing to be done was reconnoitre the large summit, and a private volunteered to do so. Later in the morning he came back with a leg wound for his pains to explain that there was indeed a prominence that offered an excellent vantage point over the rest of the summit: that was now to be their target. Meanwhile, naval guns appeared on the scene and began to lob shell after shell on the Boer trenches above.
Looking up the mountain, Jack could see that its steep sides were clear of large obstructions, but strewn with bushes and boulders. He knew what was coming next. He’d heard that call to charge not once, but now, three times. He knew it well. And he also knew that awful feeling in his guts while waiting for it to resound loudly in the desert air. This time, he expected a real slaughter. Climbing that clear slope of the kopje ahead with the Boers shooting down, so very few would reach the top.
But before the clarion call of charge, Jack heard a very different one. He looked around. Oh! Fix bayonets! Heavens, slaughter for sure. Well, all he could “fix” was his cross. A small one hung round his neck, but fortunately he had brought a second one in his pocket; he now gripped it in one hand as his bayonet, as well as his shield.
With bayonets unsheathed and fixed on the end of their rifles, they waited. B company was in the van, led by his friend Harry Burstall. But Jack was afraid that this Captain would not see the light of tomorrow’s sunrise. In fact, Jack realized, this Chaplain too might not be alive to greet the next dawn with his usual morning prayers. This was to be, he just knew it, his last fight.
Any regrets? No. He had fought alongside these men now for several days; he had become inured to the difficulties of wartime, of the marching, the hunger and thirst that goes with being ahead of supply lines, being in the forefront of what amounted to an invasion. He had made his decision consciously, and now he must carry it out with all the vigour he could maintain. Too bad, in a way, to meet his end here in a foreign land, but he’d be joining a multitude of others who had made the same decision and now lay resting on foreign soil.
The Canadians were not of course alone, they were backed by a huge Imperial army travelling across the desert with them. One contingent on the right had kept moving ahead, while far in the distance on the left, another battalion was marching, expecting to eventually surround this kopje and cut off any escape. But first, Black Mountain had to be cleared. And it was up to B company to do it.
Jack wondered why they had been ordered to attack in full daylight. Surely the cover of darkness would make it easier? But it was not to be. The men knew it, and he knew it. The crest of the hill had to be won, and the Canadians were there to win it.
He looked about at his friends, all with the same queasy fear, he felt sure, as they gathered for this final onslaught, perhaps the last battle any of them would ever have to wage. Indeed, in Jack’s mind, this was a do or die endeavour.
Then Harry caught his eye, winked, and gave his Bugler the order. No more ruminations hampered Jack’s will to live, as he heard blasting from the brass-throated bugle: Charge!
The men rose and scrambled with their bayonets unsheathed up the clear slope of the kopje towards the left hand bulge, which gave a view over the rest. Oddly, no veritable storm of lead greeted them — instead, sporadic and seemingly accurate shooting picked off one or other. But still the soldiers advanced, zigzagging, moving as fast as they could. Tough going, Jack thought, as he gritted his teeth and dug his toes into the loose sand. He’d made other charges, sure, but was he not still afraid? Oh yes, for this was to be his last, he just knew it. But he’d learned how to divert his mind, to press on regardless, although beside him one after another of his companions was struck down. When would his turn come? At any minute. But upwards he climbed.
Beside him he heard Harry yelling: “Let’s go, lads! The quicker we get there, the fewer we lose! Give em hell!”
Damn right, thought Jack, let’s just get there. And with that, he took off even faster, weaving back and forth, running, scrambling, panting and tripping.
If I’m finished, it’ll be doing my best, he growled, yes sir, nothing but a well-aimed Mauser is going to stop me, as he fell again.
He rose and dashed even harder, tripped again while a bullet spun past and twanged off a rock behind. Lucky trip — saved my life. How many more times will I be so lucky?
Well, the faster we get there, the fewer bullets we’ll take. Jack was now a good bit ahead of the other soldiers, who carried extra rounds of ammunition, heavy, oh yes, and rifles, and packs. They were panting, working at climbing. But Jack just had his cross, which he gripped in one hand as he tore on up. Random thoughts drove through his brain, but in the main it was: Get there! Get to the top, go through the bullets, past the blood, just get to the top!
Not much further now! He’d made it this far. Oh yes. But then, just ten ya
rds dead ahead, a Boer farmer, black hat, rose from behind a stone-piled balustrade, lifted his rifle, pointed it directly at Jack. An open target!
Jack froze. About to meet his Maker — at last. But in that split second, that fraction of a eye-blink, did any great image of Paradise open? No, though time itself stretched into eternity. As you finally face your death, does your life flash before your eyes? Oh yes: for Jack now, time expanded.
Jack saw Lorna, saw his parents, Kelsie, her canvas-wrapped body lifted from the cart. He saw Big George expire, he now saw himself looking into the hollow barrel of a rifle pointed directly at his chest. What immense blink of an eyelid, huge chink of shattered instant, did these images fill?
The finger tightened, for they were that close. Jack shut his eyes, thrust out his cross in firm fingers, arm straight ahead — as if it would help. Drop to your knees! Die in prayer!
BANG! the barrel flared.
Jack dropped.
The helmet leapt from his head.
But Jack was alive.
The Boer turned tail and took off. Jack leaped up. He bent to grab his helmet with its new bullet-hole, thrust it on his head and tore up onto the balustrade, leaned for a moment against it, panting and retching. Then against the blood-red setting sun, he saw black forms fleeing, twenty or thirty, racing off. The Boers in retreat!
He turned. His companions struggled painfully upwards, cautious, moving as best they could.
“No no, come on!” he yelled, and waved. “They’re in retreat! We’re safe. We’ve won. We’ve won!” He waved and waved.
The privates of B company rose without further thought and scambled up to join their Chaplain on the top of the kopje.
Objective achieved — the enemy had cleared off.
Harry walked past Jack, clapping him on the back. “Good work, Padre!” The men gathered, orders were given for mounted scouts to chase the Boers regrouping beyond the hill for a dash into the desert.