The kopje which we had to hold looked down on a sloping plain, and at a distance varying from 700 to 1,100 yards off, and running nearly parallel with our kopjes, was a deep dry river bed or donga. This donga ran right up towards the Boer position. In my humble opinion we should have done better to have placed some dismounted men in this donga, and so prevented the enemy using it as a zigzag trench or covered way towards our position. Instead of this, we literally stuck to the kopje. And in the early part of the fight I noticed, and drew my mates’ attention to the fact, that a lot of Boers were riding towards this river bed, but never seemed to cross it.
As the day wore on our position on these kopjes became somewhat too warm to be pleasant. And, judging by the whistle of the bullets, we seemed to have the enemy on our left flank as well as in front. It was about this time that our gallant Major, who scorned to take cover, got two mortal bullet wounds through his lungs; our doctor very pluckily set to and cut off his tunic and plugged the bullet-holes, quite regardless of the heavy fire he was subjected to. But it was of no use; in a few moments the brave old soldier breathed his last. All he said was, ‘Ah, well, I’m done for ... it’s not so bad as I should have expected.’ But there was no time now to think of him or any other poor wounded comrade.
On we went, blazing away for dear life at the well-hidden enemy. Flat on our empty stomachs, wriggling from one stone to another, never daring to raise one’s head above a few inches from the ground. Whish! whish! phew! phew! came those deadly nickels, then ping-r-r-r would sound the ricocheting shots as they struck the stones and rocks a few inches from our faces, and shot up into the clear blue sky behind us with a shriek of unquenched bloodthirstiness. Thicker and thicker they came—and now we saw that the enemy were straight in front of us, having, as I had expected, ridden up under the cover of the river bed. Orders now came for us to retreat slowly from the right. So as soon as my turn came I let blaze a few rapid parting shots, and then ‘sniped’ back over the ridge to where Trooper Ducat was holding my sub-section’s horses. I can tell you that was an exciting little bit of a sprint, and the bullets striking all around me did not tend to retard my movements. However, I got back all right, and a few seconds later Trooper Stevenson turned up. As Trooper Thelwall had not joined us, I waited a few minutes with his horse. And rather an anxious wait that was. As he did not, however, arrive, I presumed that some Boer bullet had found him out. But I tied his horse to a stump in case he did come, and then, mounting, I galloped after the rest. It was uncommonly lucky that I did tie up his horse, as he afterwards, during a slight lull in the firing, managed to make a bolt over the kopje and down to his horse. One often hears it said that Mounted Infantry do not need to be much of riders so long as they can shoot straight. All I can say is, let a bad rider try to mount a fresh horse, with a large kit on the saddle and a heavy rifle in his left hand, and bullets and pom-pom shells whistling and cracking around, and he will agree with me in saying that every Mounted Infantryman ought to be a very fair rider before he can be of much use in a fight.
Gathering up my reins, I kept up a good gallop towards our next kopje, and was just congratulating myself that I was too skinny a target for any Boer bullets when poor old Demon came down with a fearful crash, shot by a Mauser bullet. I suppose I must have been stunned by the fall, as I have no recollection of seeing him again. When I came to, I found that my neck was fearfully stiff and sore, likewise all the left side of my head. And pain—by Jove! pain was no word for it. I lay there cursing and crawling about for some time, and was momentarily expecting to have a ‘sighting shot’ into me, when, bang! and I remembered no more. I have since heard that after this two of our chaps came along and, dismounting, turned me over and left me as a ‘green ’un.’ I remember dimly wondering what time of day it was, as all things seemingly were so dim and dark that I could not see. I then thought of tying up my head with my field dressing; but whether I did so or not I could not swear, as I was more or less ‘silly.’ It must have been a pom-pom or some other kind of shell bursting near me that did the damage. Recovering a certain amount of sensibility, I was endeavouring to get under some cover when Captain Chamney rode up. He shouted out to me apparently from a long distance off, as I could just hear him, ‘Hello, Mud’ook, what the tivil are you doing here? Badly hurt are ye? Come on, then, get a hold of my stirrup an’ I’ll take ye along wi’ me; ye’r far and away too good a man to leave behind.’ I told him, of course, to go on, as I was all right and would get behind a rock and have a rest; but the good old ‘Oirishman’ told me to get up at once as he ordered. And a good job it was, too, he did order me to do so, or I’d have been resting there now. Just then Trooper Ducat came galloping up, and the two of them got me between them and trotted me along some hundreds of yards—it seemed miles to me. At last I got nearly unconscious, merely rolling along in a sort of mechanical style. But, try as much as I could, what with loss of blood and giddiness I could go no further, and as I was a mere dead weight on my two companions they halted, and I next remember myself sitting behind Captain Chamney with my blood sopping down his neck and khaki tunic, my head resting on his shoulder, and my hands locked round his body. How I got there I don’t know. I suppose they lifted me up somehow. Anyhow, there I was, and the good old commandeered Free Stater carried us well. I don’t remember much of that ride. Somebody else rode up alongside of me—I think it was Trooper Stevenson—and he, being Scotch, and therefore ‘economical,’ had pluckily picked up my rifle. So, with Ducat on one side and Stevenson on the other, alternately digging me in the ribs, I managed to hold on until we got to cover; and here Ducat, who, luckily for me, was a doctor, bound me up and gave me a drink. Gad! I was thirsty. Shortly afterwards one of Danjeboy’s Nepaulese ambulance tongas, which we had brought over from India with us, galloped up, and I was put inside. I don’t think that worthy Ghoorka driver liked the sound of Mausers any better than I did, for he simply galloped the whole way. Over stones, over scrub, over ruts. I shall never forget that ride. However, I got to the camp all right, and willing hands carried me to my tent, where I lay till dark with only a greatcoat for a pillow and a good solid piece of natural veldt for a bed. Towards evening Ducat came in, and with great kindness went and made me some cornflour, which I was able to eat. This was the first food I had had, barring three or four mouthfuls of stale bread, since 5 o’clock the night before.
Dr. Powell came back from the fight later. He had been tending the wounded and dying there. Tired and weary as he was, he at once set to and tied my head up, first shaving off some of my hair. I don’t remember much after this. I remember Sergeant Elliott (of Edinburgh) was brought into the tent with his foot shattered by a pom-pom, and we groaned out a duet throughout that night. In the fight Elliott was holding some horses when a pom-pom shell burst in their midst, shattering Elliott’s foot and finishing off several horses, including his own. Managing to get hold of another mount, he rode up and reported himself to Captain Noblett, by whom he was of course ordered to the rear. So, badly wounded as he was, Elliott rode those five miles back to camp unaided. Next day or the day after—I do not remember exactly, as I was unconscious for two or three days, off and on—the ambulance waggons drove up, and into them we were shoved. Colonel Lumsden, Captain Noblett, Captain Chamney, and Sergeant Hewitt, I think, all were there, seeing us off and helping us to ‘keep our peckers up.’ My one complaint was that Captain Chamney wanted to shave off my moustache when he was doing the V.C. trick on the veldt. I asked him why he wanted to. He was much surprised at the question, and told me in answer that ‘there were too many Boers doing the shaving for him to think of it himself.’ I must have imagined the whole thing, I suppose, when I was lying ‘silly.’
Photo: Harrington
HERBERT N. BETTS, D.C.M.
Another incident which was referred to briefly by Colonel Lumsden, who for obvious reasons did not make much of it, is thus described in detail by Trooper Preston:
Lumsden’s Horse was to do the work of advance guard and scouts. No. 2 Section, B Company, was chosen for the scouting, and immediately sent out, and very soon the whole of the 8th Mounted Infantry was spread over the plain. One sub-section (Troopers Franks, Were, Powis, and myself) were scouting ahead of everyone else. For the first three or four miles the ground was fairly level, with a few small kopjes with trees on them. Then there was a ridge of kopjes with a steep valley behind, and then another ridge. The scouts got to the first ridge of kopjes before seeing anyone, then two shots were heard in the distance, and a man on a big roan horse was seen galloping away. As the scouts rode between two kopjes on the first ridge, about sixteen men were seen to come out from the top of the ridge; immediately the scouts halted, looked at them through their field-glasses, and saw they were dressed in khaki. Before the scouts started they had been told to look out for some of General French’s men on their right. One of the officers coming up then (Lieutenant H.O. Pugh) looked at them, and saw the same as the others—that they were dressed in khaki. The scouts then rode round the kopje, intending to meet them. By this time the sixteen men had got down into the valley, and were making up the steep hill on the other side to the top of the kopje. Trooper Franks and I then went down the valley, intending to see who they were, while the other two went on to the right. The men had by this time got on to the sky-line, some dismounting and others sitting still. We rode half way down the valley (which was about two hundred yards across), and then halted and looked through our glasses. The men on the top then shouted out something and began to fire at us, so we turned and galloped for our lives. Trooper Franks, after riding about three hundred yards, began reeling in his saddle and tumbled off. Lieutenant Pugh and a few men then galloped up to him and found he was shot through the back and stomach. The bullets meanwhile were raining about them. Franks begged us to leave him, saying that as soon as we were gone the Boers would stop firing; so Lieutenant Pugh gave the order to leave him and return to the others, who by this time were lining the ridge behind, Lumsden’s Horse having the highest kopje to hold. As soon as our Colonel heard Franks was wounded he started off on foot, with Troopers Betts, Percy Smith, and Chapman, to fetch him. The Boers immediately advanced down their side of the valley, and began firing at the Colonel and his party. However, they were prepared for this, and after a few shots the Boers retired, the Colonel bringing Franks in on his own horse and walking beside.[[5]] Then we got the word passed to retire from the right. Perfect order was maintained, the men retiring one by one, the others keeping up a continuous fire until their turn came. At last everyone had got away except Lieutenant Crane and three or four more, whom the order to retire never reached. The Colonel and Adjutant were among the last to go away. The behaviour of the men was just as if they had been accustomed to that kind of thing all their lives, smoking, and firing at the same time, others lying behind rocks and writing letters to their relations and sweethearts. The Boers did not follow us up, and we reached camp safely, but very sad for the losses we had sustained.
Another version of these incidents, with such minor differences as help to give a clear conception of the whole scene, is furnished by the Special Correspondent of the ‘Indian Daily News,’ who, after describing the lucky escape of one scout, writes: