In the Ranks of the C.I.V.

Photo by Arthur Weston, 16, Poultry, London.
A NARRATIVE AND DIARY OF PERSONAL EXPERIENCES WITH THE C.I.V. BATTERY (HONOURABLE ARTILLERY COMPANY) IN SOUTH AFRICA
BY DRIVER
ERSKINE CHILDERS
CLERK IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
1900
DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND AND COMRADE GUNNER BASIL WILLIAMS
With some who left for the War it was roses, roses, all the way. For us, the scene was the square of St. John's Wood Barracks at 2 A.M. on the 3rd of February, a stormy winter's morning, with three inches of snow on the ground, and driving gusts of melting flakes lashing our faces. In utter silence the long lines of horses and cloaked riders filed out through the dimly-lit gateway and into the empty streets, and we were off at last on this long, strange journey to distant Africa. Six crowded weeks were behind us since the disastrous one of Colenso, and with it the news of the formation of the C.I.V., and the incorporation in that regiment of a battery to be supplied by the Honourable Artillery Company, with four quick-firing Vickers-Maxim guns. Then came the hurried run over from Ireland, the application for service, as a driver, the week of suspense, the joy of success, the brilliant scene of enlistment before the Lord Mayor, and the abrupt change one raw January morning from the ease and freedom of civilian life, to the rigours and serfdom of a soldier's. There followed a month of constant hard work, riding-drill, gun-drill, stable work, and every sort of manual labour, until the last details of the mobilization were complete, uniforms and kit received, the guns packed and despatched; and all that remained was to ride our horses to the Albert Docks; for our ship, the Montfort , was to sail at mid-day.
Hardships had begun in earnest, for we had thirteen miles to ride in the falling snow, and our hands and feet were frozen. As we filed through the silent streets, an occasional knot of night-birds gave us a thin cheer, and once a policeman rushed at me, and wrung my hand, with a fervent Safe home again! Whitechapel was reached soon enough, but the Commercial Road, and the line of docks, seemed infinite.