War's Brighter Side Part 9

We, belonging to that portion of the Press to which is a.s.signed the duty of witnessing and chronicling the deeds which make history, extend to the ill.u.s.trious writer a welcome, sincere and whole-hearted.

We feel, all of us, that his brush alone can do complete justice to the wonderful pictures of war which we have been privileged to see.

We, who have been with Tommy Atkins on many a hard campaign, have long ago come to love him for his quiet, unostentatious courage and his patient endurance of hardships; but we feel that Mr. Kipling alone can translate to the world the true inwardness of Tommy's character. We feel sure that the Mulvaneys, the Learoyds, and the Ortherises will welcome him as heartily as we do, and we are hopeful that this fresh meeting of Tommy Atkins and perhaps the only man who rightly understands him, will be productive of fresh pictures of the British soldier.

THE SOBEREST ARMY IN THE WORLD.

BY H. A. GWYNNE.

The force which, under the command of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, left Enslin and occupied Bloemfontein will undoubtedly be known in history as the "Sober Army." Never before in the history of campaigning has there been known such an absence of excess in the way of drinking--and eating too, as far as that is concerned. Some people have dared to cast aspersions on the British army by insinuating that drunkenness is not unknown among its members. They have even gone further and declared that officers and men are very fond of their "tot" or their "pint" or their whisky and soda. I only wish some of these calumniators could have accompanied Lord Roberts' force. They would have recanted on the spot, and returned home convinced that the British army was not only the finest but the soberest in the world.

Their excessive sobriety and wonderful self-restraint in the face of temptation rather tempts one to delve deep down for the psychological reasons. I have myself made inquiries, but I must confess that I am at a loss for a real reason. My firm belief is that the British soldier is so actuated by a deep sense of duty that, having come to the conclusion that hard drinking and hard fighting were incompatible, he promptly dropped the former and devoted all his energies to the latter. It would have been expected that at the end of a long, dusty march the men would have, immediately after being dismissed, made a rush for the canteen. Nothing of the sort. They sat down to tea and coffee and left the canteen waiters kicking their heels doing nothing. It is true one or two soldiers have told me that they couldn't find the canteen; but the majority of the men chose, of their own free will, to ignore its existence, and actually never looked for it. But this n.o.ble continence, this splendid self-restraint has been very nearly spoilt by the folly and wickedness of some of the authorities. They actually issued rum to the men at intervals. Now one of Tommy's greatest virtues is obedience. He was ordered to drink rum and he did it--just as he advanced against a kopje spitting forth lead when he was ordered. But the task of swallowing the hateful stuff was distasteful in the extreme. I have seen him take his mug and get his tot and then look at his officer as much as to say, "Must I really take it?" The officer's answering glance was invariably a command which poor Tommy could not disobey, and he tossed off the liquor with one gulp to get it over all the quicker, and then held his mug upside down to show he had done the deed.

One would have thought, indeed, that this wonderful self-restraint would be destroyed in the wild rush of joy with which the army was filled the night that Cronje surrendered. Not a bit of it. The men lying on the soaking ground never touched a drop of alcohol, although many would say that the victory of our arms deserved an alcoholic celebration. But that night the canteens were as deserted as ever. One man, and one man only, fell. He was an officer's servant, and was discovered gloriously happy, delightedly drunk. His comrades kept hitting and punching him and asking him where he had found the liquor, it evidently being their firm intention to destroy it. He refused, however, to answer a word until his master found him and, seizing him by the shoulder, shook him, and exclaimed with eager face, "Good Heavens, Jones, where the devil did you get it?" And Jones answered drunkenly to an eager crowd of expectant officers and men, "Meth'lated Shpirits, Shir. I'sh found it in waggon."

Whereupon ten eager voices asked--

"Is there any left?"

"No; finished whole blooming lotsh."

And then his comrades gently kicked him for a cur.

CORRESPONDENCE.

_To the Editors of_ "THE FRIEND,"--GENTLEMEN,--I have read with much of interest one article in one of your last issues touching the steal at the horses.

As a veteran of the war of 1870, I think that this would be of interest towards much of your abonnes if I should write some words of my proper experiences.

It appears by the article in the number of THE FRIEND of the 19th that the writer desires to carry to the observation of those who themselves find in authority, that by their proper negligence he has been forced to become that which you other English call jail-bird.

Now I have made the war of 1870. I was dragon. I have suffered the same privations and I have smelt the same difficulties on the question of horses, but never I not have failed of myself to find without horse of war. This without myself to boast.

I not desire to blame the author of this article praiseworthy, who, as he appears to wish to himself efface, in myself offering as counsellor, but since, as to myself seems that he wishes to hold one sale of his animals that it is all this that he has of most imbecile of to announce on the roofs his crime.

An officer of dragons in 1870, I was having at the month of the June twenty horses of the first quality, grand, strong, majestic animals, worthy of to carry one officer of dragons in battle against those canailles of Prussians.

At the month of September after Sedan he not me was remaining nothing, and I not was having not even the means of me to save in Belgium.

What to do!--Officer French not is able not to render himself. Ah! not know I not the anguish of himself to find without horse. What have I done? To steal, no! This was indignant of officer. To buy, no! I of it not was having not of what. I was aperceiving in the distance one horse of officer of the Estate Major. This was the horse of my poor friend Gu-gu, evidently killed or gravely blessed. If if not, why not was he not, the brave gar, mounted on his horse, directing the flight?

In one instant I myself was launched thereon without hesitation. To save the horse favourite of my poor friend dead Gu-gu was my first thought. In rending to his corpse this little service I was rending to my patrie one service again more grand. I myself was reserving for one death more epouvantable. Then, since that he is possible of to find the horses of friends blessed, for what himself to submit at the stigma of to be accused of to be thief. More late, when one wishes to sell the horses, one himself finds in face of one difficulty inextricable, if the proper proprietor himself finds upon the market.

Gu-gu I have found more late in Paris, it is true, but we have eaten the good horse together like good comrades.

Agree my compliments most respected,

M. VOL AU VENT.

(The Editors, for obvious reasons, divest themselves of any responsibility for the opinions held by our distinguished Gallic friend.)

"FED UP!"

_The Cavalryman's Growl._

BY A. B. PATERSON.

I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most; I'll take my turn in open fight and die beside my post.

But riding round the whole day long as target for a Krupp, A-drawing fire from koppies--well, I'm quite Fed Up!

There's not so many men get hit--it's luck that pulls us through, Their rifle fire's no cla.s.s at all--it misses me and you; But when they sprinkle sh.e.l.ls around like water from a cup From that there bloomin' pom-pom gun--well, I'm Fed Up!

We never gets a chance to charge--to do a thrust and cut-- think I'll chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.

But, after all, what's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day, They occupied a koppie when the Boers had run away.

The Cavalry went ridin' on, and seen a score of fights, But there they stuck, those Mounted Fut, for seven days and nights-- For seven solid days and nights--with scarce a bite or sup, So when it comes to Mounted Fut--well, I'm Filled Up.

And trampin' with the Footies ain't as pleasant as it looks-- They scarcely ever sees a Boer, except in picture books.

They make a march of twenty mile, which leaves 'em nearly dead, And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty mile ahead!

Each "Footy" is as full of fight as any bulldog pup, But walking forty miles to fight--well, I'm Fed Up!

So, after all, I think that when I leave the Caval-ree I'll have to join the Ambulance, or else the A.S.C.

There's always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup; But bully beef and biscuits--well, I'm fair Fed Up!

MISS BLOEMFONTEIN.

There appears to be some general misapprehension as to the authenticity of the letter written by "Miss Bloemfontein" in our issue of yesterday. The Editors wish to state that the communication in question was written by a lady, a member of a well-known family in this city, and undoubtedly reflects with wit and frankness the feeling of many of those to whom the abandonment of this place to the British forces has been a bitter disappointment.

THE GREAT RIDE.

BY PERCEVAL LANDON.

The newspapers of the world published a notice of the surrender of Bloemfontein on the evening of Thursday, March 15th.

The Boers had wrecked the telegraph line to the south of the town; to the west the field telegraph was useless; yet perhaps not one reader in ten millions stayed a moment to wonder how the news had reached them.

When Lord Roberts left Doornboom the entire expedition was _en l'aire_. Telegraphic communication was at the mercy of the pa.s.sing ox or the malicious pa.s.ser-by, rain and wind were almost equally destructive, and the inevitable breakdown occurred. The wire, aerial or earth-borne, was useless in forty-eight hours, and, so far as outer communication was concerned, Bloemfontein and all around and within it might have been Tristan d'Acunha.

But the London papers published the full account of the surrender on the second day after the capitulation.

The manner in which news was sent to the English papers may perhaps be of interest. It must be remembered that there was then no communication with the south. It was impossible to pick up the cut wire north of Norval's Pont. The line from Kimberley to Boshof lies, even as we write, in a cat's cradle on the veldt. There was no option--the telegrams must be sent through Kimberley and by despatch riders.