When the South African war broke out, he was sergeant-major in the New South Wales Lancers under Colonel Cox, they being the first Colonial troops to land at the Cape. He went right through the war, and participated in the battles of Modder River, Magersfontein, Grasspan, Paardeberg, Driefontein, and the Relief of Kimberley. He was with French's column during the main advance. When the 3rd Imperial Mounted Rifles were formed, Lieutenant Robson became transport officer under Colonel Cox, and saw a lot of service in Natal, the Orange Free State, and Eastern Transvaal. He participated in Kitchener's big drives, wherein his resourcefulness was of great help to the column. On one occasion Remington's column was held up by an impassable, boggy morass. The Inniskillens and Canadians were bogged. The Australians halted. Lieutenant Robson improvised a crossing with bales of hay and reeds, and got his transport over while the others were wondering how far round they would have to go. On another occasion in the Transvaal, by a simple device, he crossed the Wilge River with all his mules and wagons at a place reckoned absolutely hopeless for wheeled transport.
After the South African war he settled down on the Northern Rivers, and prospered. But when this great cataclysm convulsed the world, he heard the call of Empire, and responded like a patriot. He wired to Colonel Cox, offering his services, and left the comforts of home for the discomforts of war. On board the transport he was most painstaking and zealous in the performance of his duties. At Ma'adi he had his transport running as smoothly as a machine. When we found we were going without our horses, we thought that Lieutenant Robson would be left behind. But at the last moment the regimental quartermaster fell ill, and Robson filled the breach. And so for nine weary weeks of fighting he looked after the needs of the regiment, and not one trooper ever went to bed hungry. (I say "bed," but none of us has seen a bed for many months.)
As quartermaster, there was no need for him to be poking about the trenches and up in the firing-line as he did. But it was not in the firing-line he was killed. That is the fortune of war. He was standing just near headquarters watching the warships gliding over the Ægean Sea. Then came the fatal shell, and "Robbo" passed out to the Beyond.
CHAPTER XIV
"COME AND DIE"
TRENCH LIFE—THE SNIPER IS BORN—HOLIDAY ON A HOSPITAL SHIP—"WAR IS HELL"—SHIFTING SCENES—NOTHING IMPOSSIBLE—HEAVY FIGHTING—DEATH AND BURIAL OF A GALLANT OFFICER
We were told at the outset that the trenches were the safest place to be in, and this is quite true. Shrapnel now and then knocks down the parapets and does a little damage, but in Shrapnel Valley and Suicide Walk it bursts at all times. And even in the dug-outs one is not wholly safe. Many a brave spark has gone out in the dug-outs. The Turks have their snipers, and we have ours, as the sea hath its pearls. A good sniper is indeed a pearl—unless he is fighting on the "other side," and in that case he is "a cow." Most of us try our hand at sniping, with more or less success—climbing up and down these hills in search of what we call "big game"—but although I am a tolerable shot myself, I have come to the conclusion that your true sniper, like your true poet, is born, not made. I have heard it said that a good tennis-player makes a good sniper (providing he can shoot) because he has the knack of anticipating his opponent's movements. It is not enough to see your man and have a "pot" at him, for the chances are that just as you let go, he stoops down to pick a pretty flower, or he stumbles over a scrub-root. Now, the successful sniper is he who anticipates that stumble, or with an uncanny sort of second sight sees that pretty flower which the enemy gentleman is going wantonly to pluck, and aims low accordingly. Only by some such sort of intelligent anticipation could some of our men have put up the astonishing records that stand to their credit. But of that more anon.
Just at the moment I am out of the firing-line, and it is time enough to write of snipers and shot and shell when I get back to it—lots of time. For the present I am otherwise engaged. I have seen a girl—several of them—real girls—beautiful girls. To one who has not seen a girl for nearly six weeks girls seem wonderful. It is a red-letter day. For the first time for five weeks I feel absolutely safe from snipers and shells. I'm on the hospital ship Gascon, a couple of miles off Anzac. No, I'm not sick, neither am I wounded; it is just a little matter of duty that has brought me over, and I'm having a glorious holiday—two hours of real holiday. Presently I shall go back to my little grey home in the trench; and so I am enjoying every minute of my time on the ship. After weeks of bully-beef and bacon and biscuits I have had a DINNER. Can you who live at home at ease realize what that means? I had soup, fish, grilled chop, sausage, potatoes, rhubarb tart, cheese, bread and butter, coffee—fit for a king! Before dinner I hungrily watched the stewards as they walked in and out of the saloon. And after dinner I bought two cigars for two shillings and smoked the smoke of absolute peace and contentment.
I quite forgot the war. I could scarcely hear the sound of the fusillade and bombardment of Anzac, and I kept on the other side of the ship so that I should not see the place. The only thing to remind me of the war was the occasional booming of the guns of our warships. After the trenches it was just like heaven. The view was delightful. Imbros, Samothrace and Tenedos were near by. The sea was smooth; the weather perfect, the blue of the sky rivalling the blue of the Mediterranean.