Four figures in khaki sat in the stoep drinking coffee, and old Schwartz climbed down from his horse and stiffly mounted the steps, while the new-comers rose to greet him. It was his son Hermanus from Slipklip Oost, and with him a man he knew, Commandant Jacobus Delarey of Witkopjie, but in khaki, with rifle and bandolier. Why in khaki?
Old Schwartz shook hands in silence, and peered under his shaggy eyebrows at the other two, also in khaki, with rifles and bandoliers. They were his grandsons, Willie and Munik, his two favourites, ‘the children’s children that are an old man’s crown.’
The old man passed his hand over his brow in perplexity. ‘What are you all doing in khaki? I don’t understand, Hermanus.’
‘The boys are going with the commando, father!’
‘What commando?’
‘The new commando that is going to help the English in Egypt, and the French.’
‘Going to help the English, my grandsons—going to wear khaki? I will never allow that.’
‘But, father, they are all doing it; all the young men are going. General Smuts is raising many commandos, English and Dutch. The English are fighting to protect the world against Germany. I have read it out to you, and mother has told you of the war.’
‘Your mother never told me that the farmers were going to wear khaki and be English soldiers. Cursed be any of mine who join the English.’