Impressions of a War Correspondent

George Lynch

Description

There are few people in the world who have more opportunity for getting close to the hot, interesting things of one's time than the special correspondent of a great paper. He is enabled to see the wheels go round; has the chance of getting his knowledge at first hand. In stirring times the drama of life is to him like the first night of a play. There are no preconceived opinions for him to go by; he ought not to, at least, be influenced by any prejudices; and the account of the performance is to some extent like that of the dramatic critic, inasmuch as that the verdict of the public or of history has either to confirm or reverse his own judgment. There is a peculiar and unique fascination about this reading of contemporary history, as it grows and develops while one peers with straining eyes through one's glasses. There is something like a first night, too, about the way the critics view things. Sometimes great difference of opinion. I recollect the afternoon of Nicholson's Nek - Black Monday, as it was afterwards called - when we returned into Ladysmith half the correspondents seemed to be under the impression that the day had been quite a successful one; while, on the other hand, one had headed his despatch with the words, Dies Irae, dies illa! To get to the heart of things; to see the upspringing of the streams of active and strenuous life; to watch the great struggles of the world, not always the greatest in war, but the often more mighty, if quiet and dead silent, whose sweeping powerfulness is hidden under a smooth calmness of surface - to watch all this is to intimately taste a great delicious joy of life

Sujets

• Histoire
• Republic of South Africa
• South Africa
• History of Africa
• Afrique du Sud

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819902348
• Langue: English

Extrait

INTRODUCTION
There are few people in the world who have moreopportunity for getting close to the hot, interesting things ofone's time than the special correspondent of a great paper. He isenabled to see "the wheels go round;" has the chance of getting hisknowledge at first hand. In stirring times the drama of life is tohim like the first night of a play. There are no preconceivedopinions for him to go by; he ought not to, at least, be influencedby any prejudices; and the account of the performance is to someextent like that of the dramatic critic, inasmuch as that theverdict of the public or of history has either to confirm orreverse his own judgment. There is a peculiar and uniquefascination about this reading of contemporary history, as it growsand develops while one peers with straining eyes through one'sglasses. There is something like a first night, too, about the waythe critics view things. Sometimes great difference of opinion. Irecollect the afternoon of Nicholson's Nek – Black Monday, as itwas afterwards called – when we returned into Ladysmith half thecorrespondents seemed to be under the impression that the day hadbeen quite a successful one; while, on the other hand, one hadheaded his despatch with the words, "Dies Iræ, dies illa!" To getto the heart of things; to see the upspringing of the streams ofactive and strenuous life; to watch the great struggles of theworld, not always the greatest in war, but the often more mighty,if quiet and dead silent, whose sweeping powerfulness is hiddenunder a smooth calmness of surface – to watch all this is tointimately taste a great delicious joy of life. The researches ofthe historian of bygone times are fascinating – absorbinglyfascinating, although he is always handicapped by remoteness; butthe historian of to-day – of his day – this day – whose day-page ofhistory is read by hundreds of readers, the day after has set tohim a task that calls for all, and more than all, that he can give– stimulates while it appalls, and would be killingly wearying ifit were not so fascinatingly attractive. That close contact withthe men of this struggling world, and the men who do things,and shove these life-wheels round, warms up in one a great love forone's kind – a comrade feeling, like that which comes from beingtent-mates in a long campaign. Two o'clock in the morning wake tothe tramp, tramp of men marching in the dark – marching out tofight – and the unknown Tommy you march beside and talk to in lowvoice, as men talk at that hour, is your comrade unto the day's endof fighting; when returning, to the sentries' challenge you answer"A friend," and, dog-tired, you re-enter the lines, welcomed by hissesame call, "Pass, friend; all is well."
I
THE DANCE OF DEATH
Death from a Mauser bullet is less painful than thedrawing of a tooth. Such, at least, appears to be the case,speaking generally from apparent evidence, without having theopportunity of collecting the opinions of those who have actuallydied. In books we have read of shrieks of expiring agony; but askthose who have been on many battlefields, and they will not tellyou they have heard them. As a rule a sudden exclamation, "I'mhit!" "My God!" "Damn it!" They look as if staggering from the blowof a fist rather than that from a tiny pencil of lead – then asudden paleness, perhaps a grasping of the hands occasionally as ifto hold on to something, when the bottom seems to be falling out ofall things stable, but generally no sign of aught else than thedulling of death – dulling to sleep – a drunken sleep – drunkendeath it often seems – very commonplace as a rule. A smile as oftenas, or oftener than, any sign of pain, but generally no sign ofeither. Think of this, mourning mothers of England. Don't pictureyour sons as drowning out of the world racked with the red torturefrom the bullet's track, but just as dropping off dully to sleep,most probably with no thought of you or home, without anxiety orregret. Merciful Mauser! He suffered much more pain when youbrought him long ago to the dentist, and his agony in that horriblechair was infinitely greater than on his bed on the veldt. MercifulMauser be thanked!
The first man I saw badly hit during the war was aDevon at Elandslaagte, just after they had advanced withinrifle-range. He was shot through the head, and it seemed quiteuseless for the bearers to take the trouble of carrying him off thefield; yet they went back looking in vain for a field ambulance.They carried him instead to the cart belonging to a well-known warcorrespondent. The owner had given the driver strict orders toremain where he was until his return, but the shells were fallingaround the cart, which, in fact, seemed to be made a mark of by theBoer gunners – perhaps they thought it belonged to one of ourgenerals, whom they may have imagined had taken to driving, likeJoubert and some others of theirs. The arrival of the wounded manwas a great godsend to the driver, who immediately, with the mosthumane insistence, offered to drive him to the nearest fieldhospital. Neither cart nor driver was again seen until long afterthe battle was over, about nine o'clock in the evening. Strange tosay, the man recovered from his wound.
In our first engagements there was rather too muchanxiety on the part of a wounded man's comrades to carry him to therear; but it did not continue for long. The actuating motive is notalways kindness and humanity, but a desire to get out of danger. Itwas soon evident that it was only going from the frying-pan intothe fire, as the danger of walking back carrying a wounded man wasimmensely greater than remaining or advancing more or less on one'sstomach. Sometimes it was the unfortunate wounded man who was hitagain. Men carrying off a wounded comrade of course renderthemselves strictly liable to be regarded as combatants.
A still more absurd practice was that of sometimesattempting to carry off the dead during an engagement. An instanceof this was seen at Rietfontein. A couple of men of a Volunteerregiment were coming across the open ground below the hill under apretty brisk fire, when Dr. H – – , himself one of the mostfearless of men, called out to them, "S – – has been killed downthere; better bring him in." They turned back immediately, and oneof them, J. Gillespie, got off his horse and lifted the corpse onto the saddle, they holding it in position by hanging on to a legon either side, and walked back, while the bullets were whistlingaround them, and knocking up little spurts of dirt on the ground infront of them. It was a most ghastly sight; the head of the corpsebobbed about with the motion of the horse, and the lips of thecorpse were drawn back in a horrible grin, as if he were laughingidiotically at them for trying to qualify for a Victoria Cross witha corpse. I really think they deserved it just as much as if he hadbeen alive.
A curious thing happened to a horse of one of themen who were performing this feat. The owner found when he hadreturned to Ladysmith that his water-bottle, which was attached tohis saddle, had been perforated by a bullet. Showing it to anotherin the evening, they came to the conclusion, from the position ofthe holes, that it would be impossible for the holes to be made inthe position they were without wounding the horse. The next day, onexamining the horse, he found a bullet had actually passed throughand through him, and yet apparently he seemed none the worse.
There was another but different instance of a horsecarrying a corpse at the battle of Lombard's Kop. There was noleering and hideous grinning at us, however, as the rider's headhad been blown clean away by a Boer shell. The 5th Lancers wereriding out on our right, when a single horse came galloping pastthem, clattering furiously over the stony veldt. No wonder the menstared; it was a sight to be remembered. The rider was firmly fixedin the deep cavalry saddle; the reins tossed loose with the horse'smane, and both hands were clenched against either side of hisbreast; and the head was cut off clean at the shoulders. Perhaps inthe spasm of that death-tear the rider had gripped his horse'ssides with his long-spurred heels; perhaps the horse also waswounded; anyhow, with head down, and wild and terrified eyes, hisshoulders foam-bespewed, he tore past as if in horror of theghastly burden he carried.
How wonderfully expressive are the eyes of thesecavalry horses at times! There it seemed sheer horror; but oftenwhen wounded they look towards one with a world of pitiful appealfor relief; in their dumbness loud-voicedly reproachful against thehorrors of war.
Two men being killed on one horse seems rather atall order, yet it is perfectly true. It happened at the cavalrycharge after Elandslaagte. Some of the Boers stood their groundwith great stubbornness till our cavalry were only a few yardsaway. One middle-aged, bearded fellow stayed just a little toolong, and had not time to get to his horse, which was a few yardsaway. He scrambled up behind a brother Boer who was just mounting,but almost immediately the 5th Lancers were upon them. There was afarrier-corporal, an immensely big, powerful fellow, who singledthem out. They were galloping down a slight incline as hard as theycould get their horse to travel, but their pursuer was gaining onthem at every stride. When he came within striking distance hejammed his spurs into his big horse, who sprang forward like atiger. Weight of man and horse, impetus of gallop and hill, focusedin that bright lance-point held as in a vice. It pierced the leftside of the back of the man behind, and the point came out throughthe right side of the man in front, who, with a convulsivemovement, threw up his hands, flinging his rifle in the air. TheLancer could not withdraw his lance as the men swayed and droppedfrom their horse, but galloped on into the gathering darknesspunctured with rifle flashes here and there and flitting forms thatmight be friend or foe. This poor fellow w