By the time I had gathered what was happening, about a dozen more men had been bowled over. I then ordered the whole lot to take cover in the trench, and only pop up to take a shot to the front or rear. But no more could be done by us towards the rear than to the front. The conditions were the same—no Boers to be seen. At this moment two of the guard from Waschout Hill started to run in to our trench, and a terrific fusillade was opened on to them, the bullets kicking up the dust all round them as they ran. One poor fellow was dropped, but the other managed to reach our trench and fall into it. He too was badly hit, but just had the strength to gasp out that except himself and the man who had started with him, all the guard on Waschout Hill had been killed or wounded, and that the Boers were gradually working their way up to the top. This was indeed cheering.
So hot was the fire now that no one could raise his head above ground without being shot, and by crouching down altogether and not attempting to aim, but merely firing our rifles over the edge of the trench, we remained for a short time without casualties. This respite, however, was short, for the men in the right half of the trench began to drop unaccountably whilst they were sitting well under cover, and not exposing themselves at all. I gradually discovered the cause of this. Some snipers must have reached the top of Waschout Hill, and were shooting straight down our right half trench. As the bullets snicked in thicker and thicker, it was plain the number of snipers was being increased.
This, I thought, must be being "enfiladed from a flank." It was so.
Without any order, we had all instinctively vacated the right half of our trench and crowded into the left half, which by great good luck could not be enfiladed from any point on the south side of the river, nor indeed by rifle-fire from anywhere, as, owing to the ground, its prolongation on the right was up above ground into the open air, and to the left did not touch ground for some 3,000 yards away on the veldt on the north bank.
Though we were huddled together quite helpless like rats in a trap, still it was in a small degree comforting to think that, short of charging the enemy could do nothing. For that we fixed bayonets and grimly waited. If they did make an assault, we had bayonets, and they had not, and we could sell our lives very dearly in a rough-and-tumble.
Alas! I was again deceived. There was to be no chance of close quarters and cold steel, for suddenly we heard, far away out on the veldt to the north, a sound as of some one beating a tin tray, and a covey of little shells whistled into the ground close by the trench; two of these burst on touching the ground. Right out of rifle-range, away on the open veldt on the north, I saw a party of Boers, with a white horse and a vehicle. Then I knew. But how had they managed to hit off so well the right spot to go to to enfilade our trench before they even knew where we were?
Pompom pompompom again, and the little steel devils ploughed their way into the middle of us in our shell-trap, mangling seven men. I at once diagnosed the position with great professional acumen—we were now enfiladed from both flanks, but the knowledge was acquired too late to help us, for—
"We lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow,
To the hail of the Nordenfeldt."
This was the last straw; there was nothing left but surrender or entire annihilation at long range. I surrendered.
Boers, as usual, sprang up from all round. We had fought for three hours, and had twenty-five killed and seventeen wounded. Of these, seven only had been hit by the shrapnel and rifle-fire from the front. All the rest had been killed or hit from the flanks, where there should be few enemies, or the rear, where there should be none! This fact convinced me that my preconceived notions as to the front, and its danger relative to the other points of the compass, needed considerable modification. All my cherished ideas were being ruthlessly swept away, and I was plunged into a sea of doubt, groping for something certain or fixed to lay hold of. Could Longfellow, when he wrote that immortal line, "Things are not what they seem," ever have been in my position?