The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  “You have plenty of fighting ahead, right here in my column.”

  “We’re not asking to go for long,” Jeff said. “A week. Then we’ll come back and fight for you some more.”

  “But going to do what, Davis?”

  “See the fight. Take part in it. In case it’s the last big one. We’ve been here a long time, colonel. We’d feel bad to miss it.”

  Rimington fussed but did not argue further. It was probably true that fights of any size were a bygone thing in this war.

  “What if others hear about it and want to go?”

  Frank thought of the cricket matches; the naked men paring their toenails while their uniforms boiled.

  “Tell them we’re carrying a dispatch. To General Hamilton or General Rawlinson. We’ll need that to get through the blockhouse lines anyway.”

  “Rawlinson, then. But what am I to say to him?”

  “Please accept these representatives of Colonel Rimington’s column. Best of luck, Mike.”

  Rimington barked a laugh. He wrote it just that way, sealed it, and gave it to Jeff. He said they should leave that night.

  Rooiwal

  They found Hamilton’s army after four days and nights of riding. As soon as they’d started, they’d been consumed with the idea that they would miss the fight and had pushed their horses harder than was wise. They had taken two horses for every man, and now all were tired.

  It was April 10 when they got there, and long past dark. In front of Hamilton’s twenty-mile front were sham fires. It looked like Kitchener’s Machine, without blockhouse lines to work between. The fire line tracked up and down the hills and glowed beyond the west horizon.

  The first order of business was to deliver the dispatch, so they asked directions to Rawlinson’s section of the line. When they arrived, the area was dense with soldiers. An error of communication had dumped Kekewich’s column in the middle of Rawlinson’s. Thousands of soldiers and their supply wagons were plastered together in the dark.

  While Frank and the others listened to the din, General Rawlinson came riding with another general, shepherded by torch-bearing guards. The second general turned out to be Commander-in-Chief Ian Hamilton.

  Jeff and Frank left the troopers with the horses and tucked in behind the generals’ guards. To anyone who barred his progress, Jeff said, “Dispatch for the general,” and bulled forward. Frank stayed close.

  When Hamilton and Rawlinson met Kekewich, they were close enough for Frank and Jeff to hear. Kekewich was complaining and Hamilton interrupted him.

  “How you came to be here and whose fault it is matters little. The truth is you’re going to have to move tonight.”

  Hamilton described a low ridge at the west end of the cordon. He wanted Kekewich to lead his column there tonight, in case the Boers got the idea they could turn the flank.

  Rawlinson said, “I hope they try it. With De La Rey off talking peace, it’s a first-rate opportunity to smash up his subordinates.”

  Hamilton added, “Actually, Kekewich, even this balls-up works in our favour. If you march by night and arrive before morning, the Boers won’t know you’re there. All the more chance they’ll run into you.”

  When Kekewich left, Jeff pushed forward with his letter. Rawlinson recognized him.

  “From Rimington, Davis? Is it important?”

  “Mostly just wishing you luck, sir. He sent five of us, five scouts. We’re to help if we can.”

  “Due respect, Davis, I have scouts.”

  Rawlinson turned, looking for someone to take them off his hands. A lieutenant was lurking. “Do something for these men, would you, Tate? They’ve had a long ride.”

  The lieutenant led them away.

  “We came to see the battle,” Jeff told him.

  The lieutenant laughed. “If it’s action you want, I’d follow Kekewich. Mess he’s in, he won’t notice you’re there.”

  Colonel Kekewich was in the process of lining out his column in the dark. His sergeants were shouting themselves hoarse. The baggage column was in everyone’s way. Jeff and Frank found Danny and the Australians, and Jeff led them along the line of men and wagons and past it. He went ahead and found the advance guard. There he introduced himself, saying they were scouts from Rimington, sent to help. The corporal had no opinion and let them take a place in line.

  Starting from the cordon’s middle, it was a ten-mile march to the flank. It took the balance of the night. When they found the end of the line, they watered their horses at the base of a long low hill, the one they were meant to fortify. Then they started digging. Frank’s five took turns with the Wallace spade.

  Frank and Danny took the horses back behind the line. They found a black orderly who understood them and was willing to hold the horses. By then, the sky above the horizon was showing light and the balance of the column had arrived and was trenching all around them. Farther back, across the creek, gun teams were digging in a pair of Armstrongs.

  While Frank and Danny were making arrangements for the horses, Jeff left Toby and Bert in the trench and went looking for men he knew. He hoped to find Casey, but did not. From a stranger, he learned that the Boer generals and politicians were rumoured to be on a train for Pretoria this morning, delivering their peace terms to Kitchener. The same man told Jeff that, with De La Rey gone, the Boers were apt to be led in battle by Potinger or Kemp, two commandants known for their keenness to fight.

  As the hill became better defined by morning light, a unit of horsemen, maybe fifty, galloped for the crest and over. They were the bait. With luck, the Boers would chase them back, into the fusillade.

  The fifty-man bait had not been gone long when firing was heard. In fifteen minutes, a pair of riders sped back. They skidded their horses to a halt before Kekewich’s position. Every man squirmed deeper in his trench, rebalanced his carbine on the lip. The sun had risen. The hill crest was lit and empty.

  The sight when it came was shocking, barely believable. For half a mile, the hill top was suddenly lined with Boer horsemen. When the first row flowed over, four more rows came behind it, galloping knee to knee. If the Boers were surprised by what they saw, they did not show it. The horses came at a fast canter. They streamed down the slope, holding their fire.

  The first round of British case shot missed the Boer formation comically wide. But the next one tore a hole in the flowing rows. They closed the gap and kept coming. They were as neat and tidy as anything Frank had seen in the war.

  At three hundred yards, the Boers began firing from the saddle. Some fired one-handed, some from the shoulder. The thousands of entrenched men cut loose and poured thousands of bullets at them.

  “What the hell are they up to?” a soldier yelled from Franks right. “Don’t the stupid bastards care if they die?”

  From Jeff’s place in the trench, Frank heard him say quietly, “They care.”

  Danny, Toby, and Bert stared goggle-eyed. Frank yelled at them to remember to shoot.

  Many in Kekewich’s line could not stand it. The force exerted by that charging, firing wall of horsemen ripped them out of their trenches, like fish on the same bait line. Once they made the decision to run, they ran like madmen. Frank saw an old officer draw his pistol and aim it in the cowards’ faces. They ran past him.

  When Frank looked down his own trench, he saw that Jeff had his carbine aimed but was not firing. He sat a little high in the trench, but that was all.

  The troopers were doing better now. Neither sitting like stumps nor firing like fools. Just steadily picking away.

  The fusillade from the trenches began to tell. The Boers were going down, horses and men. As they closed in, Frank could see their leader, could actually see his blue shirt billowing. He was at the front and kept coming, even after bullets hit and twisted him. When he was within a hundred yards, Frank checked Jeff again. He was sitting up and taking careful aim. Frank looked forward and saw the Boer leader’s head kick back, saw him peel from his saddle. The charge stalled and curl
ed. Those who could rode away.

  Frank had never seen a charge as brave and foolish. Now that it was over, he was washed in sadness. Then came fear. He looked at Jeff and expected him to be dead. He looked at his troopers, fearing one of them would be staring at a hole in his body. But all four men were unharmed. Then Frank felt a speeding joy, for surely this meant all of them would leave this war alive.

  The three troopers were still staring at the battlefield, as if struck blind by the immensity of what they’d witnessed. Jeff had left his carbine lying on the front of the trench and was slumped against the back. His look was sad and fathomless. Frank climbed out and looked around. It seemed as if every trench had a man suffering in it. The Boers had done much damage.

  Like magpies, Tommys were already up among the fallen Boers, looking for trophies. The rumour of peace had made them avid, and Frank was angry to see them pulling weapons from beneath wounded men.

  There was a high-strung singing in Franks head, and everything he saw played to that accompaniment. Jeff was standing now, stretching as if after a heavy night’s sleep. The troopers had climbed out onto their jellied legs. Frank led them down the lines of trenches.

  Most wounded men were attended to by someone. Ambulances had arrived, their horses prancing. The stretcher-bearers came and went. A gut-shot man without anybody called to Frank for water. He was heavy and blond. Two dumdum tears in his belly were turning him grey. Frank gave him his water bottle and the man took a bloody drink. His teeth chattered from pain and chill. Frank told him the usual things about a medic coming and how he would be somewhere better soon.

  “Like heaven?” said the pale man. His hair was dirty and plastered to his forehead. His khaki shirt was black from the ribs down.

  “Hospital. There’ll be a good-looking nurse for you.”

  The man tried to laugh and cried instead; covered his face with a meaty hand. “I can’t stand this. I wish I’d die.”

  They left the trenches and started up the slope. A Tommy had found a kettle tied to the saddle on a dead horse. He ran away excited, yelling about tea. Frank had marked the spot where the leader in the blue shirt had fallen. He wanted to see his face, but the bullet that had killed him had made too big a mess of it. Contemptuous of the trophy seekers a minute ago, Frank suddenly wanted something that had belonged to this brave man. He unfolded his jackknife and cut a button from the blue shirt, then a second one for Jeff.

  He was standing up to go when he saw Denny Straytor. He remembered thinking he’d found him another time. But this was Denny, and he was dead. For a second, Frank thought of going through his pockets, looking for something, maybe a letter from Alma. He caught himself, and instead took off the soldier’s bloody coat and covered him.

  Frank could not think of anything more to do. Jeff said they should find their horses and take them to water. He said he would like a bath in the creek. Frank studied Jeff’s face. He’d wanted to be in this battle, and now he’d survived it. Frank thought there should be something written in his friend’s expression about that, but he couldn’t find it.

  The man who had taken their horses had led them into some rock cover. None of their animals had been hit, though a couple of other horses were down. One of the horse orderlies, just a boy, ran back and forth holding his arm ahead of himself, his fingers dripping blood. They paid the man who had looked after their horses and led them away.

  Farther along, lieutenants and sergeants were gathering troops, yelling about the retreating Boers and how they must be chased and defeated, They must not be allowed to rally. Inside that crowd, Jeff spotted Casey Callaghan. He jumped on The Blue and trotted to where Casey was holding The General. Frank watched the two men shake hands and clap each other’s backs. Casey was gesturing to the top of the hill, meaning, Frank supposed, that Jeff should come along for the chase. But Jeff returned, leading The Blue. He said nothing, except to repeat that he wanted to go to the creek and wash.

  When The Blue could smell water, she started bunting Jeff’s back. Though she did it hard enough to make him stumble, Jeff ignored her, being lost in thought.

  Frank was behind Jeff, and the three troopers were behind him. Now that they were walking away from the dead and wounded, the young men were giddy. Arguing over how many they had killed and who had come closest to being shot. Happy to have such a story to tell.

  In the trees, men were sitting and lying in the dappled shade. At the creek, a few Tommys were in the water already, naked and pale, shining like saints. It was not much of a river, shallow and full of sand, and they had to sit to get the water over their laps. Downstream, Frank and Jeff watered the horses, then tied them to trees. The three troopers were on the sandy shore, yanking at their boots, when a rifle cracked and a bullet struck the water. The men in the creek floundered and threw themselves to shore; crawled for cover, cursing and yelling. They wondered if it was a Boer who’d been hiding among them all this time, or one of their own gone mad.

  Jeff walked to the creek with his boots in his hands. He stood with his back to the sniper and took no cover when another shot came through the trees.

  “This is what we’ll do,” he said.

  “Who the fuck are you?” said a skinny half-dressed Tommy.

  Frank answered. “He’s Regimental Sergeant-Major Jefferson Davis. Canadian Scouts. You should listen.”

  An older English soldier, sitting naked in the grass—fat, pink, and breasted—laughed. “If he’s got a plan, I don’t. Let’s hear him.”

  Jeff pointed west, in the direction of the sniper. “There’s a road there. It leads to a bridge. I think the Boer is on that road, this side of the river. Corporal Adams will lead you toward him. When he stops, he’ll guess where the Boer is. When he shoots, the rest of you advance. Then you shoot the same place Adams did, and he goes forward. I’ll wait here.”

  “He waits here,” said the first Tommy. “How do you tell it’s his fucking plan?”

  “I’ll cross the river and come up the far side to the bridge. Frank, when you know where the Boer is, let the others help you flush him. He’ll head for the bridge. I’ll get him there.”

  Before they started, Jeff took Frank aside. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a spent bullet casing from a Lee-Enfield: about the most common object in Africa. He handed it over.

  “If something happens, give this to Revenge Walker. Tell her it’s the bullet that killed Villamon. You got anything you want me to take?”

  Frank could not think of anything except the quartz stones from the ostrich’s belly that he meant to give Young Sam’s family. Anyway, he wasn’t expecting to die. He shook his head.

  Jeff went to the edge of the creek and Frank and the others went inland. He had his three troopers and two Tommys, including the fractious one. Before they started, Frank repeated the instructions about running when Frank shot, and shooting when Frank ran. He told them to be careful not to shoot him in the back.

  He crouched and ran. Counted fifty and stopped. He looked for a line that went through the trees to the sunny stripe of road, then fired three times. When the Boer returned fire, Frank tried to figure out where it was coming from. Danny, Bert, and Toby were almost up to him. So were the Tommys.

  He ran again. Soon the shots of his men were passing him. Some of them thunked into the trees. They were not coming close enough to the Boer, and the Boer never stopped firing at Frank. One of those bullets ripped bark near Frank’s head, and the angle at which it hit the tree finally gave him a clue to the sniper’s whereabouts. When Frank stopped next and shot through the light of the road, he was sure he saw the bushes shake. He had him spotted.

  When the troopers and the Tommys caught up, Frank ran to them. He explained where the Boer was, then explained it a second time.

  “We’re not fucking stupid,” said the Tommy.

  On a count of five, they stood and fired at once. It wasn’t the best shooting but it ripped the bushes a few times where it mattered. The Boer burst onto the road.


  When Frank entered the roadway, he was blinded. He squinted and saw the Boer running with his rifle raised, firing at the bridge. Jeff was at the bridge’s far end, the planks gleaming in front of him. His rifle was waist high and pointed sideways.

  The others caught up, and the noisy Tommy yelled, “Fucking hell! What’s wrong with your man? Why doesn’t he shoot?”

  Frank was running again. At the bridge, the Boer stopped. There were only thirty yards between them now. The Boer raised his rifle. He was aiming this time. Frank pounded down the road. He still had his carbine but was afraid to fire. The Boer and Jeff were too much in line.

  The Boer’s rifle bucked and cracked. The shoulder of Jeff’s tunic burst. Frank dropped his carbine and kept going. He was thinking he could prevent the next shot. Then someone was beside him. It was Danny, running faster than Frank and about to pass him. When Frank looked forward, the Boer had turned. He was aiming at them.

  Frank lunged and hit Danny on the backs of the legs. The two of them hit the hard pan of the road, skidded and rolled. There was another shot. Frank looked up through the dust and saw the Boer stagger to the bridge’s edge. The plank on the edge was doubled. The Boer’s feet struck it and he fell.

  The noisy Tommy picked up the Boer’s Mauser and carried it to the edge. He leaned over and spat. Frank got to his feet and went there too. The Boer was face down, the brown water parting around him.

  “Did Sergeant Davis shoot him?” Frank asked the Tommy.

  “Fucking joking, you are,” said the Tommy and spat again. “Never aimed or fired his fucking rifle once. Stood there. Bloody coward.”

  Frank should not have hit the Tommy. He knew that even as he did so. The Tommy stumbled and came back at him, hit Frank flush below the eye.

  “The fuck you do that for?” the Tommy yelled. “Crazy bastards, all of you.”

  “He’s not a coward, that’s all.”

  Danny, Bert, and Toby were clustered around them, wondering if they should fight the Tommy or what was correct.