God and Churchill HB

by Jonathan Sandys

  He barely had time to straighten up and regain his bearings before another warrior lunged at him with a sword.

  ‘I raised my pistol and fired,’ he wrote years later. ‘So close were we that the pistol itself actually struck him. Man and sword disappeared below and behind me.’2

  With his bad shoulder, it is doubtful whether Churchill, using his sword, would have been able to reach down and strike the first Dervish attacker. But even if he had managed that feat, it is improbable that he would have recovered his balance in time to defend against the second foe at much closer range.

  That the injury to his shoulder at Bombay led to his survival at Omdurman might reinforce the idea that someone was watching over him.

  After the battle, the valiant cavalryman wrote to his mother: ‘Bullets – to a philosopher my dear Mamma – are not worth considering. Besides I am so conceited I do not believe the gods would create so potent a being as myself for so prosaic an ending.’3 If he faced the possibility of death on the battlefield, at least he’d had a ‘pleasant’ life. It would be regrettable to give up his life so soon, but at least if he were dead, it would be a regret he wouldn’t have to experience.4

  It was all, of course, sheer hubris. There is no record of a reply from Lady Randolph, but any parent can imagine the thoughts that must have filled her mind.

  SURVIVAL IN SOUTH AFRICA

  In October 1899, war broke out between Great Britain and the South African Republic. Churchill had by now left the army, but he was still yearning to see action. After obtaining a contract to serve as a war correspondent for the Morning Post, he set sail from Southampton on 14 October aboard the RMS Dunottar Castle.

  Arriving in Cape Town on 31 October, Churchill and two of his fellow correspondents took a train to East London, and from there they caught a steamer to Durban. In Durban, Churchill heard that his old friend Ian Hamilton, now a general in the army, had travelled by rail to Ladysmith. Churchill immediately followed. Though he was now a civilian, he felt certain that Hamilton would afford him the same respect as if he were still in uniform.

  Churchill and J. B. Atkins, a correspondent for the Manchester Guardian, began their journey, only to find that Hamilton’s train was the last to get through before the Boers cut the line near Chieveley. Disappointed, and now stranded at Estcourt, Churchill and Atkins pitched their tents in the railway yard, where they proceeded to take their meals, drink wine and entertain friends around a campfire each night.

  By 9 November, Churchill had become frustrated with his situation, and he let it be known around town that he was looking for a guide to take him to Ladysmith – even though he knew that a sizable army of Boers was situated between Estcourt and Ladysmith. His determination to insinuate himself into the thick of the action was clearly leading him down a very unwise path of unnecessary danger. And once again, destiny – or Providence – interceded.

  Churchill discovered that an armoured train was scheduled to leave that afternoon for Colenso, a small town in no-man’s-land that was about twenty miles from Ladysmith. The thought of seeing action, his first since Omdurman, was too irresistible to pass up, and when the train pulled out of the station, Churchill was aboard. When Captain Helmsley, the officer in charge of the train, stopped short of Colenso and proceeded on foot with his sergeant, Churchill disembarked as well and followed.

  After reconnoitring Colenso, Churchill reported in his dispatch for the day that ‘[we] had learned all there was to learn – where the line was broken, that the village was deserted, that the bridge was safe, and we made haste to rejoin the train… . So we rattled back to Estcourt through the twilight.’5

  From Estcourt, Churchill continued his correspondence. While sitting around the campfire with the commanding officer of the garrison, Colonel Long, he suddenly heard shouting and metallic clanging. The colonel explained that soldiers were loading the field guns to move to a safer location in anticipation that Estcourt would be taken by the Boers. Churchill boldly suggested that the move might be seen as a sign of evacuation and could lead the cautious enemy to become daring in their advance.

  Colonel Long left the campfire, and soon the noise stopped. However, a few minutes later, the scraping and banging began again, and Churchill saw the weapons being removed from the train, apparently to remain at Estcourt.

  I did that, Churchill mused. Then he caught himself, and assumed a more modest attitude. ‘We did that,’ he said.6

  It would not be the last time that Churchill voiced his opinion nor the last time he advised resistance rather than surrender. And though at times he may have seemed arrogant or rash, his intentions were good and his judgement usually sound. He respected the officers making the decisions, and his previous military service afforded him a credible voice.

  Around that same time, in a letter to Sir Evelyn Wood, Churchill raised the question of punishment for officers who surrendered troops under their command. He hated surrender. He believed that wars should be fought until the last man is standing.7

  Years later, when he was pressed by high-ranking government officials in the early days of his first term as prime minister to seek a truce with Hitler, even if it meant surrender, he famously replied, ‘If this long island story of ours is to end at last, let it end only when each of us lies choking in his own blood upon the ground.’8 And he meant it.

  What he had seen in Africa many years earlier had no doubt taught him the importance of all-out victory. The mere thought of surrender at Omdurman had made the word sour to his palate, and occurrences such as the events at Estcourt only intensified his distaste. Once again, events in his early life prepared him for the grand assignment that still lay ahead.

  ABOARD ‘WILSON’S DEATH TRAP’

  Though Churchill was unsuccessful in securing a guide to take him to Ladysmith, he soon found another way to get himself into the action. Through a seemingly coincidental – but perhaps, in hindsight, providential – circumstance, he bumped into the temporary commander of the Dublin Fusiliers, Captain Aylmer Haldane, while wandering along the single street in town.

  Churchill and Haldane had been friends from their frontier days in India, and Haldane had helped Churchill secure an appointment to Sir William Lockhart’s staff during the Tirah Expedition, a war fought between the British and the Afridi tribe in 1897–1898 for control of the Khyber Pass in mountainous northern India (now Pakistan). Now in South Africa, Haldane was preparing to take an armoured train on a reconnaissance mission. Believing that Churchill would be a good companion and knowing that he had previous experience, Haldane happily invited him to join the mission.

  Churchill soon stood beside the beast of a train, which had been nicknamed Wilson’s Death Trap, watching as the soldiers clambered aboard six armoured wagons – three on each end, with the locomotive and the tender set in the middle. Mounted at the head of the train was a six-pound naval gun to be operated by sailors from the HMS Terrible.

  As the train set off from Estcourt, neither Haldane nor Churchill knew that a Boer artillery unit with three field guns and a quick-firing Maxim gun held a position overlooking the railway about fourteen miles down the track.

  The train departed on schedule and arrived at Frere Station around 6.20 in the morning. No enemy had been seen. At Frere, Churchill spoke to a party of eight Natal Mounted Police, who informed him that they comprised an advance patrol reconnoitring towards Chieveley.

  The train travelled on and reached Chieveley around 7.10, at which time they received a message instructing them to remain at Frere because Chieveley was now occupied by the enemy. The message came with a specific and alarming warning: ‘Do not place reliance on any reports from local residents, as they may be untrustworthy.’9

  Upon acknowledging receipt, they were further informed that a party of about fifty Boers and three wagons had been spotted ‘moving south on the west side of the railway’.

  About that time, Haldane spied ‘a number of small figures moving about and hurrying forward’ about six
hundred yards behind the train, back in the direction of Estcourt.10 With no time to lose, Haldane ordered the troops to reboard, and they began their return journey.

  As Wilson’s Death Trap approached a hill along the way, Churchill, who was standing on a box in one of the troop cars with his head and shoulders rising above the steel plating, saw a cluster of Boers along the crest. ‘A huge white ball of smoke sprang into being,’ he said, ‘and tore out into a cone, only as it seemed a few feet above my head. It was shrapnel – the first I had ever seen in war, and very nearly the last!’11

  Suddenly, an almighty crash was heard, ‘a tremendous shock’. Churchill, Haldane, and ‘all the soldiers in the truck were pitched head over heels on to its floor’.12 Scrambling to his feet, Churchill peered over the top of the carriage. The front three cars of the train had derailed, but it was unclear at the time what the cause had been.

  Churchill and Haldane jumped from the wagon and quickly agreed that Haldane would go to the rear to man the small naval gun, attempt to draw the enemy’s fire, and keep them at bay while Churchill made his way to the front of the train to investigate the cause of the crash and see what could be done. Bullets ricocheted off the sides of the carriages as the Boers opened fire on the unfortunate British troops, who scrambled to take cover behind the armoured wagons.

  Upon reaching the front of the train, Churchill surveyed the scene with alarm. The Boers had apparently rolled several large stones onto the track, and because the locomotive was situated in the middle of the train, the driver hadn’t seen them. Even if he had, the sheer weight of the train and its speed would have made it impossible to stop in time to avoid the boulders.

  Although two of the derailed wagons were partially blocking the track, Churchill surmised that, with some help from the soldiers, they might be pushed out of the way by the locomotive. Under steady fire from the enemy – their lives in imminent danger and the outcome uncertain for more than an hour – Churchill, the engineer and several soldiers worked to free the train and clear a path towards home.

  Eventually, the locomotive and tender car were able to travel again, and a gradual retreat began towards the Blaauwkrantz River. In the process of clearing the track, they had detached all the wagons from the locomotive, and these now had to be left behind. The wounded from the battle were loaded onto the locomotive, and the rest of the soldiers ran alongside, using the engine for cover as they made their way towards safety.

  As the train moved away, the Boers increased their fire. Fearing that the locomotive would be crippled by the artillery fire, the engineer increased his speed, and Churchill watched helplessly as the troops on foot, unable to keep up with the train, scrambled furiously to avoid being exposed to enemy fire.

  ‘At last I forced the engine-driver to stop altogether,’ Churchill later wrote, ‘but before I could get the engine stopped, we were already three hundred yards away from our infantry.’13 Churchill jumped from the cab and ordered the engineer to continue on, across the Blaauwkrantz River, and to wait on the other side of the bridge. Churchill then turned and ran back up the line to aid the stranded soldiers and inform Haldane of the revised plan.

  Just then, he noticed two figures in plain clothes hurriedly approaching him at a distance of about one hundred yards. His first thought was that they were platelayers from the railway, but he soon realized they were Boer soldiers.

  Once again under fire, Churchill ran back towards the engine as two bullets narrowly missed him on either side. After unsuccessfully attempting to take cover in a narrow ditch, he quickly concluded that continuing to move was his only chance of escape. Two more bullets whistled past his ears as he looked for an opportunity to get to higher ground.

  Scrambling up the left side of the ditch, Churchill scaled the embankment and slipped through a hole in a wire fence. On the other side, he crouched down in a tiny depression and tried to catch his breath. From his new position, he could see a small cabin fifty yards away – the perfect cover. Two hundred yards further along was the rocky gorge of the Blaauwkrantz River.

  ACCEPTING THE REPUGNANT

  Determined to make a dash for the river, Churchill stood and took a quick glance back towards his enemy. To his dismay, the two Boers on foot had been joined by a third man on horseback, who was now galloping towards him at full speed.

  Although officially a non-combatant, Churchill had decided that morning to carry his Mauser pistol with him on patrol. From a distance of forty yards, Churchill was confident he could shoot the mounted soldier.

  When he put his hand to his belt, his heart sank as he discovered the gun was missing. While working on clearing the track, he had removed the pistol and left it in the cab of the train. He was now standing forty yards from a man mounted on a horse and pointing a rifle directly at him with every intention of killing him. Churchill looked towards the river and then back at the plate-layer’s cabin, quickly realizing there was no chance for escape and that the horseman thundering down upon him had a perfect shot.

  ‘I held up my hands and surrendered myself a prisoner of war,’ he later said.

  Though Churchill found surrender most repugnant, ‘in the poignant minutes that followed’ he thought of Napoleon’s axiom: ‘When one is alone and unarmed, a surrender may be pardoned.’14

  The Boer lowered his weapon and beckoned Churchill towards him. Vanquished, he obeyed, and the two made their way back to where Churchill had left Haldane and his company. But there was no one there: they had already been taken prisoner.

  The weather, like Churchill’s mood, turned grim as he was compelled to join the other captives. From the start, he contended that he was not a combatant but merely a war correspondent. However, he knew too well that by accompanying a military company and taking part in the fight, he had undermined his claim to civilian status – especially given that he was half dressed in uniform. The Boers would have been within their rights to shoot him on the spot as a possible spy. No doubt Churchill saw the irony of his situation, as years later he would define a prisoner of war as ‘a man who has tried to kill you and, having failed to kill you, asks you not to kill him’.15

  While deciding the fate of their prisoners, the Boers separated Churchill from the others. As he stood in the rain, alone, he half expected a ‘drumhead court martial’ and summary judgment.16 Finally, a field cornet approached him with the verdict.

  ‘We are not going to let you go, old chappie, although you are a correspondent. We don’t catch the son of a lord every day.’17

  With mixed feelings, Churchill rejoined the others, now officially a prisoner of war. Naturally relieved that he would not be shot, he was nevertheless discouraged by his circumstances. His outlook did not improve when the men were ordered to begin a sixty-mile march to the railhead at Elandslaagte, where they would board a train to Pretoria.

  With every step during the three-day journey, Churchill regretted his decision to surrender, replaying the moment over in his head while looking for a chance to escape. Sadly, no opportunity presented itself, and along with the officers at whose side he had fought, he entered confinement at the State Model Schools in Pretoria, which had been converted to an officers’ prison.

  Unbeknownst to him, Churchill was already a hero. The Natal Witness ran a most enthusiastic report from Captain Wylie, an officer wounded in the battle, who said that Churchill’s actions had enabled a safe escape. Wylie described Churchill’s conduct as ‘that of as brave a man as could be found’.18 Inspector Campbell of the Natal government railways, on behalf of the civilian railwaymen accompanying Churchill, wrote to the General Messenger of the Railways Department:

  The railwaymen who accompanied the armoured train this morning ask me to convey to you their admiration of the coolness and pluck displayed by Mr. Winston Churchill, the war correspondent who accompanied the train, and to whose efforts, backed up by those of Driver Wagner, is due the fact that the armoured engine and tender were brought successfully out after being hampered by the derailed tr
ucks in front… . The whole of our men are loud in their praises of Mr. Churchill, who, I regret to say, is a prisoner. I respectfully ask you to convey this admiration to a brave man.19

  The letter was duly published in newspapers as far away as New Zealand. Many of the reports suggested that Churchill should be awarded the Victoria Cross, ‘the highest award for gallantry that a British and Commonwealth serviceman can achieve’.20 Though perhaps deserved, the award was never given.

  In the first volume of his biography of his father, Winston’s son, Randolph, includes a most moving report, sent to Churchill’s mother by his manservant, Thomas Walden, and later published in the Morning Post:

  My Lady,

  I am sorry to say Mr Churchill is a prisoner, but I am almost certain he is not wounded. I came down to Maritzburg yesterday to bring all his kit until Mr Winston gets free… . I have joined the Imperial Light Horse on Colonel Long’s advice, although I asked him first if I could join as I wanted to be near Mr Winston as soon as he is free. So Colonel Long said he would arrange for me to leave the regiment as soon as Mr C. wanted me. I came down in the armoured train with the driver, who is wounded in the head with a shell. He told me all about Mr Winston. He says there is not a braver gentleman in the Army.21

  Numerous other reports, all similar in their compliments, were sent, each one drawing particular attention to Churchill’s bravery and the sadness the writers felt at his subsequent capture. However, the adventure for Winston Churchill, special war correspondent to the Morning Post, was just beginning.

  Though he referred to his capture as ‘a melancholy state’, Churchill recognized that being held as a prisoner of war was ‘the least unfortunate kind of prisoner to be’, especially when compared to being ‘confined for years in a modern convict prison … each day exactly like the one before, with the barren ashes of wasted life behind, and all the long years of bondage stretching out ahead’.22

  ‘Hours crawl like paralytic centipedes. Nothing amuses you. Reading is difficult; writing, impossible.’ In assessing the boredom of prison life, Churchill allowed that ‘dark moods come easily across the mind of a prisoner… . But when you are young, well fed, high spirited, loosely guarded, able to conspire with others, those moods carry thought nearer to resolve, and resolve nearer to action.’23