Fire Across the Veldt

by John Wilcox

  The two men gave their reins the lightest of tweaks – the Basuto ponies were remarkably sensitive – and, to the cheers of the men, Jenkins and Mzingeli were off in the hottest of pursuits. The troopers were not merely cheering the hunt. They knew that, if the two were successful, there would be fresh meat instead of bully beef at camp that evening.

  In no time, the two were out of sight and Simon called to Major Hammond. ‘Philip. I know it’s early, but I think we’ll take a tea break to give those two a chance of getting back to us without trouble. The men may smoke.’

  The major opened his mouth to speak but merely frowned and nodded. ‘Very good, sir.’

  After fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of Jenkins and Mzingeli and Fonthill could catch no glimpse of them through his field glasses. He cursed inwardly but reassured himself that even 352 could not get lost on the veldt with Mzingeli with him. So he gave orders for the column to mount again and continue its journey.

  Hammond pulled alongside him. ‘I hope you don’t mind mentioning it, Colonel,’ he said, ‘but don’t you think it would have been wise to have put vedettes out to front and sides as a precaution against being taken by surprise?’

  Fonthill nodded. ‘Normally, yes. But I have posted the natives out; one to the front and one either side of us. In addition, we can see for miles out here and we should be able to sight any body of men long before they come upon us.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. It’s just that these damned Boers can materialise in a flash – from a depression in the ground or from behind a kopje. And I wonder whether the Kaffirs will be as reliable as our own men as vedettes, don’t you know?’

  ‘I appreciate your point, but I think we can rely on these black scouts well enough. Ask the officers, though, to keep a keen watch, will you?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ But Hammond rode back with a disapproving frown on his face.

  The column continued its ride out into the veldt, with the sun climbing higher. Eventually, Fonthill held up his hand to halt it and called for his officers to come forward.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, nodding to a small kopje that lay in their path, about half a mile away. ‘The RSM has not returned yet, but never mind. I want to conduct an exercise. We will attack that kopje as though it is an enemy camp, well entrenched. We will gallop towards it and then, on my command, we will halt, dismount and disperse by squadron, with each squadron in open order to right and left of me and then taking the best cover available. A Squadron will disperse to my right, B and C Squadrons to my left. Every fourth man, as usual, to take the horses to the rear. I want the whole action to take place within five minutes, from mounting, the charge, the halt and dispersal. I shall be timing it. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good. Take your posts with your men.’

  Simon watched the officers resume their positions with their squadrons and troops and then shouted, ‘Column will dismount. Dis … mount. Stand by your mounts. Prepare to mount. Mount. To the front, walk march.’ Then after a few paces, ‘To the front, gallop,’ and then, ‘CHARGE!’

  This was the first time that he had given such a heroic order and Fonthill felt slightly ridiculous, as, gripping tightly with his knees, he led the charge, hoping to God that his nimble little pony could pick its way safely between the potholes that pitted the surface. He had enough to do steering his mount between the red, conical houses of the ants, some of which stood four feet high and, made of compacted mud and grass, posed a frightening obstacle to a galloping horse. So he was relieved, then, when he was able to hold up his hand, stopping the charge some four hundred yards from the kopje.

  ‘HALT!’ he shouted. ‘Dismount and disperse in open order. Horses to the rear.’

  He took out his watch and began timing the exercise, watching the men run to right and left of him and fling themselves behind whatever cover they could find. He frowned, for the operation was going by no means smoothly, with B Squadron at first mistakenly scurrying to his right before Captain Wills screamed at them to turn around and run to his left, which forced them to scramble around C Squadron, which was already spreading out to take up firing positions.

  Fonthill looked up and shouted, ‘Not good en—’ And stopped. Streaming around the kopje was a stream of Boer horsemen galloping in pairs and fanning out to surround the tangled column before them. Sucking in his breath, Simon did a rough estimate: a hundred and fifty, at least. No – more, for they kept coming. His column, dispersed out front in a single line, was outnumbered and shortly to be taken from both flanks and in the rear.

  At the top of his voice, he bellowed a stream of orders. ‘B Squadron, double to the rear and link to the others to form a circle. AT THE DOUBLE, QUICKLY NOW! End men in A and B Squadrons bend round to complete the circle. Horse handlers, double back and get your mounts to lie down in the middle. Trackers go and help them. A Squadron at the enemy at front, OPEN FIRE! FIRE AT WILL!’

  Were they in time? He watched, heart in mouth as the horse handlers ran, pulling their horses behind them, and with the trackers slapping the flanks, into the centre of the rough circle formed by the rest of the troopers, who were half running, half scrambling to close the ring. Then, blessedly, the men of A Squadron, who had been the first to their positions, opened fire on the rapidly closing enemy.

  Simon blessed his luck that the Boers had appeared from round the furthest point of the kopje, so that in splitting to encircle the column, a line of the horsemen had to ride parallel to where A Squadron were lying. The range was comparatively short and the fire from the prone men immediately brought down a dozen or more of the Boers. Even so, enough of the horsemen thundered by to rein in, leap from their saddles just where the defensive ring was being linked together and to open up a devastating fire on the men of B Squadron.

  The other file of horsemen were firing as they galloped round to complete the encirclement and bullets hissed by Fonthill’s head as he stood desperately trying to direct the movement of his men. But, fine marksmen as they were, even Boers could not accurately fire from the backs of galloping horses and he remained unscathed, standing long enough to be sure that the defensive ring had been completed, albeit with gaps on the farthest side of the ring, where B Squadron were lying.

  Hammond appeared at Simon’s side. ‘Get the men to take cover behind the anthills,’ Fonthill shouted to him. ‘Bites are better than bullets and the Boers will pick ’em off if they are lying in the open. Did each of the men ride out with fifty rounds?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  ‘Well, I bloody well hope so. That was the order. The Boers are not going to rush us now that we are in some sort of defensive position. They will try and outshoot us, creeping nearer all the time. Tell Wills and Cartwright to tell their men to husband their ammunition and keep their heads down. Fire only when they see a target. The enemy will try to make us expend our ammunition.’

  ‘Very good, Colonel.’

  The major doubled away, crouching. The horse handlers had done a good job and only a handful had been cut off by the Boers. Amazingly, in the middle of the shooting, the horses were lying still, their handlers lying among them, soothing them. Fonthill knew that the Boers would take care to avoid hitting the ponies, for they would be anxious to take them as prizes.

  Head down, rifle in hand – Fonthill was grateful that he had decided not to carry the Webley revolver that was the officer’s formal side arm – he hurried to where Wills, the commander of B Squadron, was crouching.

  ‘How many men have you lost, John?’ he asked, trying to adopt a matter-of-fact tone. He had no idea of how these men would react to what was clearly a tight situation and it was important to set a good example.

  ‘About ten, so far, sir. I think five of them fatally, as best I can see.’ Wills replied in an equally sanguine tone. Simon looked at him sharply, then remembered that the man had spent a whole day lying on the veldt in the hot sun at Colenso, where the Boers from their trenches had shot any man who lifted
his head or arm more than six inches. ‘It’s the wounded that’s the problem, though, Colonel. The Boers are keeping up …’ he ducked his head as a bullet thudded into the anthill behind which he lay ‘… a pretty heavy fire as you can see. We just can’t get to the hurt chaps.’

  ‘Damn! Well it can’t be helped. The Boers won’t rush us while we have ammunition, so conserve it. They won’t enjoy lying out here in the sun any more than we will.’

  He nodded and crawled on, dodging between whatever cover he could find, until he came up to Cartwright. ‘Casualties, Cecil?’ he asked.

  ‘Not too bad, sir, so far. One man killed and another two wounded, although only lightly.’ The young man grinned. ‘I thought the Boers would be better shots than that.’

  Fonthill nodded. ‘Don’t underestimate them, my boy. See that your men return the fire but take no risks. It will probably be hard pounding for the rest of the day, but I think they’ll ride off when they find that we are not easy pickings.’

  Simon continued his circuit of the ring, exchanging words with each man he passed and stopping to talk a little longer and encourage the subalterns. They, all ex-sergeants and survivors of several actions, were cool and composed, he was glad to see.

  Eventually, he was back to A Squadron and crawling up to its commander, Major Hammond. ‘Casualties, Philip?’ he enquired.

  ‘Two men dead and four wounded, one of them badly, I fear.’ The drawl was still languid, although perspiration was slipping down the major’s forehead as he lay, his revolver poking round the side of an anthill. ‘Pity we’ve lost our regimental sergeant major, though, Colonel, don’t you think?’

  Fonthill nodded his head. He recognised the comment for what it was, an implied rebuke. But he did not rise to the criticism. ‘Jenkins will be back,’ he said, ‘and hopefully bringing fresh meat for dinner when we’ve sent this lot riding back from where they came. But it will be hard work until then. The point is that although I estimate that we are facing a whole commando out there and we are outnumbered, the Boers cannot afford to take heavy casualties. So far in this war they have avoided this whenever they could. So once they see we are determined and have plenty of ammunition, I believe they will ride off.’

  ‘Well, I hope you are right, sir. But we are not exactly in a good position, I fear. Not too much cover, don’t you know. They can pick us off.’

  Fonthill glanced around. ‘Hmm. Can’t see a better position that we can move to, under this fire. And I don’t see anyone riding to our aid. So we will just have to stick it out. My feeling is that the Boers might try just once to rush us – they’re not exactly bayonet men, remember – and then ride off when they fail. So we must try and preserve our ammunition until then. We won’t be here all day.’

  In fact, Simon was far less sanguine than he sounded. With eight men dead and eleven wounded, his force had already been severely reduced. To be pinned down on the open veldt behind inadequate cover and under fire from the finest marksmen in the world was not exactly the best way to exercise his untested men. The longer this situation lasted the more his force would be eroded by the enemy fire. He did a quick estimation. Perhaps they could hold out for a couple of hours more, but it all depended upon how long the ammunition lasted. He had ordered that each man should ride with at least fifty rounds, but Hammond did not sound at all sure that this order had been carried out. And where the hell were Jenkins and Mzingeli? He grabbed his field glasses and raised his head to risk a quick scan of the kopje and surrounding veldt. Nothing. Had they been taken by the Boers? His heart sank at the thought. Then he shook his head. Not Jenkins. He was indestructible.

  A second thought struck him. He had not given a thought to the native trackers he had sent out as scouts. They would surely have encountered the commando, or at least seen evidence of their presence on the veldt. It would be difficult to hide the tracks of two hundred men or more. He was thankful that he had resisted the impulse to arm the trackers, for, if they were taken, the Boers would surely shoot them. But would the enemy recognise their ponies as being Boer mounts originally? That could well be the signal for executions. Well, he had other things to worry about for the moment.

  Fonthill crawled back to where the depleted B Squadron were lying, reasoning that this was the weakest section in the ring. He found a declivity in the ground, nestled his rifle stock to his cheek and sighted along the barrel. The Boers, of course, were using smokeless ammunition, as they had done since virtually the beginning of the war. As a result, it was incredibly difficult to pick them out, so good were they at maximising whatever cover the veldt could offer. Then he saw a small black object move about a hundred and fifty yards ahead. He fired but had no idea if the shot had found a target, for he had to duck his head quickly as several answering bullets hissed over his hat.

  Would the Boers try and rush them? That’s what British troops would do. But then the soldiers of the Queen were trained to use the bayonet …

  As if on cue, he heard a guttural command in Afrikaans and then the Boers rose from their positions and began to half stumble, half run towards the British positions. They were alarmingly close, far closer than Simon imagined they could have reached, given the fire that B Squadron had been able to mount. Obviously, however, it had not been severe enough and he cursed the order he had given for ammunition to be preserved.

  He screamed: ‘Select your target. Rapid fire!’

  Having deserted their cover, however, this time the Boers presented easy targets at such short range. The rapid fire of the troopers decimated the front rank as it picked its way between the potholes and, without hesitation, the men behind turned and ran for their lives.

  ‘Keep firing, dammit!’ shouted Fonthill, as his men raised a feeble cheer.

  He turned towards where Captain John Wills was lying. ‘Good shooting, John,’ he cried. ‘I don’t think they’ll try that again.’ But Wills did not respond. His head had fallen to one side and a neat black hole had appeared in the centre of his forehead, from which a thin trickle of blood was oozing.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ He crawled to the man’s side, but Wills, the seasoned survivor of the massacre at Colenso, was quite dead. Fonthill looked round. ‘Lieutenant Forbes,’ he called. One of the newly promoted ex-sergeants, lying further away in the ring, raised his head.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Captain Wills has been killed. Take command of B Squadron. Please check casualties and let me know how many men you have left and the state of your ammunition. Keep your voice down. I don’t wish the enemy to hear—’

  Then he was interrupted by a voice from the Boer lines. ‘English,’ it cried. ‘A truce for half an hour while we bring in the wounded. Yah? What do you say?’

  Fonthill looked up. About one hundred and fifty yards ahead of him – still infuriatingly close – a rather portly man was standing with a white handkerchief tied to his rifle. He looked at first glance remarkably like one of Simon’s men in that, unlike the majority of the Boer burghers who dressed like farmers, he wore a smart, high-buttoned khaki tunic, riding boots and a wide-brimmed hat, turned up to the crown at the side. His beard, again unlike that of most Boer soldiers who seemed to emulate biblical figures, was neatly trimmed into a European-style Van Dyke cut.

  Simon rose. ‘Very well,’ he called. He pulled out his watch. ‘We will resume hostilities at 11.15 a.m.’ Then he turned to his men. ‘Squadron commanders. Nominate six men from each troop to tend the wounded. Leave the dead where they are for the moment.’

  He had heard, however, that the Boer guerrilla commandos had begun to trick the British troops by donning captured British uniforms and even firing under cover of white flags. He added, therefore: ‘Do not send the men out, however, until the Boers begin to retrieve their own wounded. The rest of your squadrons should watch their front at all times.’

  There seemed no subterfuge at play here, however, for the Boer lines immediately came to life with burly, tweed-suited men advancing to where their wounded were lying, m
any of them now beginning to cry pitifully. The British wounded, of course, had not left their lines but the cruel enemy fire had prevented anyone reaching them where they lay behind anthills and rocks and now it was possible to give them first aid.

  Fonthill made a mental note that his command, designed to move fast and be self-contained, possessed no medics – no one trained in even elementary first aid, let alone more sophisticated medical treatments. He kicked himself. His lack of experience as a field commander in the regular forces was beginning to show!

  He called to his officers to gather round him. They stood, a silent group in the middle of the ring, where the horses were now beginning to become restive, rearing their heads, neighing and shaking off the administrations of their handlers. Looking at them, Fonthill was glad to see that, despite the heavy shooting, not one of the animals seemed to have been hit – another testimony to the Boers’ accuracy.

  ‘Any further casualties?’ he demanded. Since the last count, two more men had been hit, in addition to Wills, although not seriously.

  ‘Good,’ he responded. ‘I had expected more.’ He looked closely at his officers. He had led them into what could well have been a trap and he felt his inadequacy keenly. No one, however, seemed to regard him critically, although Hammond, as usual, did not catch his eye but was staring away into the distance. ‘What is the state of the men’s ammunition?’

  All reported that an average of some fifteen to twenty rounds per man had been expended, leaving each with thirty to thirty-five cartridges.

  He nodded. ‘We don’t want to be caught in this way again. It will have to be seventy rounds per man the next time we ride out. However, gentlemen, my estimation is that we have given as good, if not better, than we have received and that the Boers have taken a bit of a hiding. They certainly will not try to rush us again. I believe that, once the wounded have been gathered in, they will keep up a more desultory fire and slowly withdraw until they mount up and ride away. What do you think, Hammond?’