Blue Shirt and Khaki: A Comparison

by James F. J. Archibald

The soldier of the Queen did not need a new opportunity to prove his quality. From the time that Cromwell’s Ironsides made the chivalry of the Continent to skip, Europe and America have had a steadfast respect for the redoubtability of the British warrior. Moreover, he has been a civilizing power throughout the world; wherever he has cleared a path, commerce has followed. It has not always seemed like Christian justice to hew a way for trade with a sword, or to subject an unwilling people to a rule of might under which they chafe and fret; but there is always one word of praise which can truthfully be said—the government that reaches from London to the remotest quarters of the globe has made the world better, happier, and securer, even through its conquests over unwilling peoples. Redcoat and khaki have stood for order, and, in the main and in the long run, for the largest justice to the largest number.

The time-honored phrase about the flag and trade is true. But few pause to consider the cost that is paid by the men of the empire who carry the flag forward that trade may follow. When the Queen issued the proclamation of war against the two republics nestled in the heart of South Africa, the world looked on and pitied the little States, and averred that such a war could not last more than a few weeks; but President Krüger said, “If England plants her flag on this land she will pay a price in blood that will stagger humanity.” She has paid that price for more than a year, and the payment is not yet complete. Never before has she paid such cost in the blood of her own sons. This is not the place to discuss the right and wrong of that struggle. Spite of all protests, it became a ghastly fact of history; from apparently impregnable kopjes, and their hillsides that were shambles, the determined English soldiers drive the unawed burghers over the vast veldts, fighting literally from rock to rock.

British soldiers visiting the U. S. troop-ship Sumner, en route to the Philippines.

It was my opportunity to be with both the Boer and British armies in South Africa, and to observe the fighting qualities of the men on both sides. After the Boers evacuated Pretoria, and I remained to witness the British operations, I came to agree with Captain Slocum that “Tommy Atkins is a wonder.” He certainly is. During two years spent in Europe I saw the great manœuvres on Salisbury Plain and at Aldershot; I have seen the British soldier on foreign garrison service and in the field; and, last, I have seen him in Africa, confronted by new problems and fighting against modern weapons in the hands of thinking men. From the point of view of this experience I venture to draw certain comparisons and contrasts between him and the American soldier, whose fighting steps I have followed in half a dozen campaigns, against the Indians in the West and also in the war with Spain.

The system of “crack” regiments in the British army has done much to injure the service of that country, as it has developed the “spit and polish” officer, as he is called in London—an imposing society soldier, useless in war. The men of these regiments are the pick of the nation, but unless there is an exceptional campaign they are not sent out. The Guards are usually ordered to the front long enough to get their medals, and then are sent home. During the last Soudan campaign the battalion of Guards was away from England only a few weeks, and were, as the late war correspondent, G. W. Steevens, said, “packed in ice, shipped to the front, and then shipped back.” During the Boer War the Guards have not had such an easy time, as it was necessary to use the whole army in active operations; and they have proved themselves good fighters when properly officered.

There is one exception to the rule of pampering the “crack” regiments in the case of the Gordon Highlanders, for they have seen the hardest service of every campaign since the organization of the regiment. Their glory is in fighting rather than in polo and cricket, in campaigning rather than in dancing.

The sturdy, practical soldiers have a large contempt for the youngster of birth who has received his commission through favoritism, and they never lose an opportunity of expressing it. While in Pretoria after the British occupation, I installed myself in one of the best houses in the city, having commandeered it when the owner, who was a British subject, fled. To make my position more secure I hung out a small American flag, so that I should not be disturbed. When the British entered the capital, General French’s cavalry division occupied the portion of the town in which my borrowed home stood, and I invited two or three of the officers of his staff to share the house with me. Some days after their acceptance an order was issued by the military governor to seize all horses in Pretoria, and a battalion of Guards was detailed to form a line across the city, making a clean sweep of every horse not already in governmental possession. I rode up to my door just as the line struck that vicinity, and the soldiers were leading out some of the horses belonging to the cavalry staff officers living with me. Lieutenant-Colonel Welsh, a thorough soldier, who has learned his profession by hard campaigning, was at the moment expostulating with a stupid officer of the Guards, who was just remarking, “Beastly business, this horse-stealing, but—aw—I have to do it, don’t you know?”

“Well, you can’t have my horse,” exclaimed Colonel Welsh, with an emphasis that told the Guardsman he was some one of importance.

That officer screwed his glass into his eye, looked about, and seeing the American flag, turned to Colonel Welsh, who was in full uniform, and said, “Oh, I say—are you the American consul fellow?”