the horse as a companion, men who had traversed the great Outback of Australia’s colonies prospecting for gold, mustering sheep and cattle, or riding the boundaries where the horse is often the best means of staying alive in a hostile land.
But Roberts, bestowed with the Victoria Cross at Kandahar many years earlier, knew that his strategy might bring the war to a close and so the men of the column marched and rode with a desire to fulfil his aim and go home.
It had not all ended by Christmas 1899 as many had predicted, however, with the Boer armies inflictingsome of the worst defeats in recent history on the British army in the closing days of the century. And now in the dawn of a new century, Private Saul Rosenblum faced the terrifyingly quick-firing guns known as pompoms, which threw explosive shells almost as fast as a machine gun. When the explosive projectiles burst open they would shower an area of ground with red hot fragments of iron shrapnel. He had also faced the barrages of the larger artillery guns of the Boer army which shook the earth under him as he hugged it, hearing it tear through men’s bodies and inflict terrible, ragged wounds of smashed muscle and bone. He had seen men and animals disembowelled, limbs torn from bodies, and heads smashed to pulp by the effects of the heavier shrapnel fired on them from the big field artillery pieces. These were sights that would haunt him for as long as he lived. Often he despaired of ever seeing the wide, sun-baked plains of the Queensland Outback again but, like all soldiers, he did not admit his fears to those who rode with him. What counted was that he did not let his mates down when they needed his courage and skill in battle.
Saul squatted by the small wood fire he shared with two other troopers of his squadron. They collected sticks of dry timber as they advanced across the veldt and the precious supply was pooled every evening. Around them other Queenslanders were doing the same. On the fire, an old pot recovered from a deserted Boer farmhouse boiled water for tea. Stirring in the tiny black leaves with the end of a twig taken from the fire, Saul sat back to reflect onhow close he had come to dying earlier that afternoon, an introspection on life and death that had become all too frequent for him. But the trooper who sat opposite broke his silent mood as he noticed the big major moving amongst the resting soldiers.
‘Hey, boss! You want a cuppa?’ he called to Patrick.
‘Wouldn’t mind one, thanks, Private Berry,’ he replied and sat down beside the fire.
Berry called for a spare cup and poured from the steaming billy. He handed the mug to Patrick.
‘You think the Boers will put up a fight for Bloemfontein?’ he asked, as Patrick sipped his hot tea.
‘I think so,’ Patrick frowned. ‘There’s a range of hills just four miles outside of the town they could easily fortify with trenches.’
‘Means the buggers will give us a hot time,’ Saul said quietly.
‘Maybe more for the poor bloody English infantry who will no doubt be used to engage their front while we outflank the Dutchmen’s positions,’ Patrick replied, turning to Saul. ‘We might just frighten them off the high ground. Their tactic of not allowing themselves to be trapped on any position will mean they will fall back without much of a fight. They can’t afford to lose men. But, in our present condition, I doubt that we would have the ability to cut off their escape.’
Berry nodded in agreement. The major knew so much because he worked with General Roberts’ staff headquarters. What’s more, he kept the men of thecolonial contingent up to date, and to know what was really going on was important to even the lowliest private.
Berry excused himself suddenly as the dysentery he suffered hit him with stomach cramps. He hurried away into the night. Then the other trooper rose to retire for some badly needed sleep. Saul and Patrick were left alone by the gently burning fire in
But Roberts, bestowed with the Victoria Cross at Kandahar many years earlier, knew that his strategy might bring the war to a close and so the men of the column marched and rode with a desire to fulfil his aim and go home.
It had not all ended by Christmas 1899 as many had predicted, however, with the Boer armies inflictingsome of the worst defeats in recent history on the British army in the closing days of the century. And now in the dawn of a new century, Private Saul Rosenblum faced the terrifyingly quick-firing guns known as pompoms, which threw explosive shells almost as fast as a machine gun. When the explosive projectiles burst open they would shower an area of ground with red hot fragments of iron shrapnel. He had also faced the barrages of the larger artillery guns of the Boer army which shook the earth under him as he hugged it, hearing it tear through men’s bodies and inflict terrible, ragged wounds of smashed muscle and bone. He had seen men and animals disembowelled, limbs torn from bodies, and heads smashed to pulp by the effects of the heavier shrapnel fired on them from the big field artillery pieces. These were sights that would haunt him for as long as he lived. Often he despaired of ever seeing the wide, sun-baked plains of the Queensland Outback again but, like all soldiers, he did not admit his fears to those who rode with him. What counted was that he did not let his mates down when they needed his courage and skill in battle.
Saul squatted by the small wood fire he shared with two other troopers of his squadron. They collected sticks of dry timber as they advanced across the veldt and the precious supply was pooled every evening. Around them other Queenslanders were doing the same. On the fire, an old pot recovered from a deserted Boer farmhouse boiled water for tea. Stirring in the tiny black leaves with the end of a twig taken from the fire, Saul sat back to reflect onhow close he had come to dying earlier that afternoon, an introspection on life and death that had become all too frequent for him. But the trooper who sat opposite broke his silent mood as he noticed the big major moving amongst the resting soldiers.
‘Hey, boss! You want a cuppa?’ he called to Patrick.
‘Wouldn’t mind one, thanks, Private Berry,’ he replied and sat down beside the fire.
Berry called for a spare cup and poured from the steaming billy. He handed the mug to Patrick.
‘You think the Boers will put up a fight for Bloemfontein?’ he asked, as Patrick sipped his hot tea.
‘I think so,’ Patrick frowned. ‘There’s a range of hills just four miles outside of the town they could easily fortify with trenches.’
‘Means the buggers will give us a hot time,’ Saul said quietly.
‘Maybe more for the poor bloody English infantry who will no doubt be used to engage their front while we outflank the Dutchmen’s positions,’ Patrick replied, turning to Saul. ‘We might just frighten them off the high ground. Their tactic of not allowing themselves to be trapped on any position will mean they will fall back without much of a fight. They can’t afford to lose men. But, in our present condition, I doubt that we would have the ability to cut off their escape.’
Berry nodded in agreement. The major knew so much because he worked with General Roberts’ staff headquarters. What’s more, he kept the men of thecolonial contingent up to date, and to know what was really going on was important to even the lowliest private.
Berry excused himself suddenly as the dysentery he suffered hit him with stomach cramps. He hurried away into the night. Then the other trooper rose to retire for some badly needed sleep. Saul and Patrick were left alone by the gently burning fire in
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