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  Chapter 17

  Captain Willie MacDonald, South Africa, 1901

  At Aliwal North, where the Orange Free State garrison was, we had a hut which served as the officers’ mess, an improvement on the canvas sail strung between two wagons that made do while we were on trek. The food was good, although rations had to be expensively supplemented by purchases of milk, bread and fresh meat whenever they could be had. My mess bill worked out at about one pound and nine shillings every fortnight.

  There were sulphur springs which had been turned into a bathhouse in the town, and we also had access to the Royal Hotel, which we treated rather like a club, a place to write letters and meet officers from other regiments.

  Despite these welcome comforts, the men were ready to go home, myself as much as the next man. My brother’s letters were growing increasingly desperate and I was concerned for him. We had all signed up as volunteers and had been there almost a year. Lovat had been sent home to raise a Second Contingent and we were told that we could go as soon as they arrived to replace us. General Hector MacDonald had been sent to India. He thought very highly of us and made his views know to the other generals before his departure. But that said, we felt considerable unease at the fact that our champion had left us.

  We heard news of a farm being burned down nearby; British troops had caught a Boer man and were beating him hard. Lieutenant Grant went out to have a try for him but was too late. Strong winds had fanned the flames across the veld and a huge tranche of land had caught fire. There was nothing anyone could do except gallop ahead and see if there were convoys or others in its course. The night sky was lit up by the flames, with gum trees flaring a good hundred feet into the air and exploding like fireworks. Gazelles and other wild beasts scattered to safety. The fire only stopped when it reached a river.

  In early June one of our messengers arrived with the news that there was a large Boer gathering near Burgersdorp. I told him that if he could get me on a hill within half a mile of them without being seen, I’d give him a guinea. Donald John, the messenger and I headed off.

  It was a typical African winter morning, cool and dry with low, rolling mist on the distant hills, rather like a pleasant spring morning at home. The messenger knew the area well and we covered the ground quickly until we got into the hills. There, the thorn bushes were impenetrable and our horses refused go any further. It would be dark within the hour, so my plan was to creep up as close as we could on foot. When daylight came, we would have a good view down into the valley, assuming there were no sentries on the kopje. We tethered the horses and set off.

  In case there were observers on the hill, we did just as you would do stalking a deer: one man spied the hill with his glass and the others crawled forward, then another would take out his glass while the others moved ahead. We were soon safely in position.

  The Boer had a well-hidden camp, deep in the bush and surrounded by hills. In the dusk we had a clear view down onto the campfires below. The next morning, as the sun rose, we could see everything. We estimated there must have been a thousand men or more, and they weren’t preparing to leave. ‘This could be one of the decisive moments of the war,’ I whispered to Donald John as I drew a sketch of everything I could see, marking where they had sentries. We calculated that if we could get four battalions of men to block each of the four exit routes then we would have them trapped. Surrender would surely follow.

  We scurried back the way we had come and by mid-afternoon were back in camp reporting to Brigade Commander Colonel Gorringe. I told him and the other assembled commanding officers of my plan, showed them my sketches and proposed a strategy. Gorringe was notoriously rude and unpleasant, and was known as ‘Bloody Orange’ throughout the army. However, that day, he shook me by the hand and told everyone what a sound officer I was. I was then instructed to lead the Highland Brigade towards Burgersdorp – with two thousand men and guns to pull, a good twenty-four-hour journey. Gorringe would meanwhile do his best to find a fourth regiment – essential to my proposed entrapment of the Boer army.

  Sneaking up on the Boer is well-nigh impossible, especially when travelling with a large contingent of men and wagons. But, somehow, we managed to get into position without their fleeing. We had them surrounded, apart from the final pass, and had been informed that the vital battalion would be in position there by the morning. There was a tremendous sense of excitement and anticipation amongst us all. The Boer appeared unsettled; they clearly knew we were there.

  In the pitch black that night I lay motionless on the same hill as before, looking down on their camp. The fires were still burning and we could hear noise from below. My heart was hammering and I was incredibly anxious; having come up with the assault plan, I was desperate for it to succeed. But at first light, when I looked down, to my shock and consternation, there wasn’t a single person remaining. They had slipped out through the fourth pass.

  There was enormous disappointment throughout the brigade, and I had never felt so tired or so miserable. After four nights with little sleep and a hundred and twenty miles on horseback, we’d missed out on a sitting target. It was the lowest point of my army career.

  Our next project was to provide cover for the engineers who were building a row of blockhouses to control the movement of people and to stop the railway tracks from being blown. It was a tedious job, but at least we wouldn’t have to man the buildings afterwards. They were erected five hundred yards apart with stone walls at the base, wood and corrugated iron above, and they housed a dozen men apiece. Barbed wire was strung between each one and rockets were set up to fire if the wire was cut and went slack, should the Boer try to get themselves and horses through.

  There was a large Boer Commando unit of two hundred men that had been causing trouble in our district, and so we formed a plan to drive them towards the line of blockhouses, by then manned by the Connaught Rangers. It was exactly like a grouse shooting, with a hundred of us Scouts and two hundred or so from other units lined up along ten miles. The officers kept the line straight, passing messages down the line using semaphore flags. But yet again, the Boer slipped away.

  Chapter 18

  Donald John, South Africa, 1901

  It was midday. We had stopped to get some shade beneath gum trees and to eat a biscuit or two and drink some water. Captain MacDonald called the NCOs together and briefed them. The men were restless; they could tell there was a plan afoot.

  After a quarter of an hour Cammy called everyone to form up, so that the adjutant could give orders. ‘Men,’ he began, ‘as you know, General Kitchener has decided that the best way to bring the Boer farmers to heel is to burn their farms and crops and to take their families to camps. We have been spared this duty so far, but we have instructions to clear the land south of Edenburg and to escort the people to Aliwal North. We will do this with the best traditions of Highlanders in mind: firmly but with courtesy throughout.’

  He went on to explain the mission in detail, outlining who was to do what and when. The men then split into groups and a great deal of grumbling could be heard. At one point I heard Cammy’s voice rising above the others saying, ‘You’ll just do what you are told, Mackenzie!’

  ‘Captain MacDonald,’ I said, ‘the men are very uncomfortable about burning the farms and herding the people away. Is there no way we can avoid it?’

  ‘I understand,’ he replied. ‘I feel the same. But orders are orders, and if we don’t do it, there will be hell to pay. Another regiment will take our place and they won’t have the sympathy and kindness that our men have.’

  I could see he was ill at ease and shared our concerns, but I felt compelled to go on. ‘But, Captain, we’ve all heard what happened at Bethulie Bridge. We could be taking these innocent civilians to their death – surely that can’t be right?’ As I spoke I was aware that my voice was rising and my face was bright red. I was not one to display insubordination.

  Captain MacDonald’s furious retort took me by surprise. ‘Gillies, get a g
rip of yourself!’ he bellowed. ‘You are in the army, you are a professional soldier, and you are subject to army discipline. One more word and I’ll have you placed under arrest.’

  After this reprimand I sat apart from the others, brooding over the exchange. Why hadn’t there been a mutiny in the army over these clearances before now? Had people lost their sense of honour and decency? The very thought of having to visit a camp made me feel sick. I knew I wouldn’t be able to help but look at the women and children there and see the faces of our own beloved. The old hands said we’d get used to it, but I for one knew I wouldn’t. The refugee camps were constructed like military camps, with rows of tents, toilet blocks, a cooking area and so on. I did not doubt that the inhabitants hated us; they were resentful and distraught about their circumstances. I had even heard rumours that a great many of the babies and young children died there, the women, too, due to the poor hygiene. Disease was rife, so bad in fact that our men were forbidden from entering the camp, not that they wanted to.

  It was in June 1901 that we were finally ordered to clear the farmland south of Edenburg. We knew by then that Lord Lovat had raised a second contingent of Scouts and we were due to head back to Scotland in a month or so. By this time our numbers had halved; there remained only about fifty of us.

  Up until then, we had managed to avoid clearing land. Our CO, Colonel Murray, had apparently said to the generals that the Scouts hailed from areas where they themselves had been driven off their land, their houses burned and people herded onto ships bound for Nova Scotia and Australia. They knew the misery of it. Murray wasn’t sure the Scouts would be prepared to do it, and in any case weren’t we too valuable as a reconnaissance force?

  However, our turn had come and there was nothing we could do about it. The plan was to move onto a kopje and spy the farm at dawn with a glass. There was a chance there would be men prepared to fight. After the job was done, we were to meet up with a convoy of wagons at Mafeteng and escort the families south.

  It was a cold morning when we arrived at our rendezvous location. We could see smoke rising from a chimney, and the African workers leaving their shacks and heading off to tend to the cattle. A dog was barking in our direction; maybe it had caught our scent. Lieutenant Grant took a party of men a long way around the property, to come at it from the rear. We were tasked to approach from the front, at exactly noon.

  As the morning progressed, we watched the Vanloos family coming and going. There was one man – a grey-bearded grandfather, probably too old to go off to fight – and four women and seven children. We counted at least twenty black workers, too. Everyone was to come, along with all the cattle, sheep and horses.

  As we drew near, we could see the workers scurrying back to their houses. But what we didn’t expect was that the grandfather would decide to conduct a battle of his own and start firing from a window.

  Captain MacDonald shouted, ‘Charge!’

  At once we were galloping in from about a hundred yards away, me at the front, bullets whistling as they passed. My horse was hit square in the chest, and as it fell I was catapulted over its head. I landed heavily, only a few yards in front of the farmhouse, and everything went into slow motion. I looked up, winded and unable to move, to see this crazed old man staring down the barrel of his rifle, straight at me. I’ll never forget that image: his deeply lined face, the sweat on his brow, and through the tangled mass of his grey hair and beard, his glittering black eyes. Then, just as I saw his finger tighten on the trigger, one of the women knocked his rifle up and the shot flew over my head. The woman and I looked intensely at each other for a second. She had saved my life.

  The sound of gunfire, although only feet away, now seemed distant. The house was almost within touching distance. I stretched out my hand towards my saviour, but she was gone.

  By now, Grant’s men were in the house. The old man had been shot as he defended his property to the last. Still dazed, I lay on the ground where I had fallen for what seemed like an eternity, shaking like a leaf.

  The woman reappeared, framed in the farmhouse window, and called out in English, ‘Are you all right?’

  I nodded, mouthed, ‘Yes, thank you,’ and smiled weakly.

  She disappeared into the house.

  One of our men rushed over to see how I was. He handed me a flask of water, which I gulped down and then poured over my head. I thanked him as he pulled me to my feet. ‘I thought I was a goner there. The old man had me right in his sights from point-blank range.’

  What should have been a relatively trouble-free evacuation had turned into mayhem. The incident was all over in a few minutes, but the women and children were screaming at us. Two women suddenly came at us with a pitchfork and a kitchen knife. Cammy and I easily overpowered them, and within moments, they were lying face down in the dust, hands tied behind their backs.

  ‘Tell them to behave themselves and we’ll untie them, Donald John,’ Cammy called over to me.

  Stumbling over my words, I made it clear, as kindly as I could under the circumstances, that we intended to treat them well, but I only received a torrent of abuse. These two women were proving hard to be kind to.

  Meanwhile, we gave the others twenty minutes to gather their personal belongings before we set fire to the buildings. I thought the screeching of the old man’s wife was never going to end until Cammy threatened to gag her unless she promised to be quiet. I was again the interpreter though no one needed any understanding of Afrikaans to realise the extent of her distress.

  The farm workers were ordered to dig a grave, two planks were tied together to make a cross, and Captain MacDonald recited the Lord’s Prayer as the old man was lowered in.

  The old man’s wife, her two daughters and six children were placed in an open farm wagon pulled by two oxen. The other, much younger woman – my saviour – and her daughter had a small Scotch cart that they pulled along, with the help of a servant. A dog trotted beside them, barking constantly. I noticed that there seemed to be no love lost between this young woman and the other three.

  The farm workers and their womenfolk – some with infants strapped to their backs and youngsters running alongside – trailed along at the back with twenty or more cattle and two hundred sheep.

  We were stretched out for a good half-mile. The Scouts had spies front and back, and the rest took turns to ride to and fro, trying to keep the stragglers moving. We were sitting ducks for a Boer attack.

  I was without a horse now, but was happy to walk. After a while, I asked the servant pulling the cart alongside the young woman and her daughter to let me take his place. We walked in silence for what seemed like hours, the woman never meeting my eyes. Their dog was a blue merle rough collie, the same size as our Border collies but with startlingly pale blue eyes. The poor beast was emaciated. It seemed to belong to the child and was wary of me at the outset, growling and then backing off. I’ve always loved dogs, though, and have a way with them. After some coaxing, we soon made friends.

  It was far more of a challenge to befriend the woman or even get her to say a single word. Withdrawn and sullen, she stared straight ahead as she shouldered her share of the cart’s weight. I understood, of course. She was in shock, a prisoner, but I was desperate to thank her for her courage.

  I went ahead of the cart and picked up a stick, throwing it clear of the wheels. The dog raced after it and returned, dropping it at my feet, imploring me with its eyes to repeat the game. The young girl and I smiled, and even her mother, finally, caught my eye. The dog and I continued the game for a few minutes, with the girl joining in.

  I held out my hand to the girl and said in Afrikaans, ‘My name is Donald John.’

  She took it, after glancing at her mother for approval. ‘My name is Anja,’ she replied.

  I bent down and shook the dog’s paw, looking up questioningly towards Anja.

  ‘She is called Hondjie. She is my dog,’ she announced proudly.

  Her mother shook my hand. ‘Linde,’ sh
e said, her voice low and guarded.

  As we walked along we began to talk. Linde had a bit of English – her grandmother was from Cape Town, she explained – so we managed to understand each other. Anja told me that Hondjie means ‘puppy’ in Afrikaans, that she had been given her as a present when she was a small child, and they had hardly left each other’s side since. At night, Linde added, she would invariably find the two curled up beside each other.

  I was a little gushing towards Linde at first. But I soon became acutely aware that the other women were giving her filthy looks, no doubt thinking she was fraternising with the enemy. One of the women shouted the word ‘hoer’ and Linde recoiled as if she’d been slapped.

  ‘Do they know how you knocked the old man’s gun aside and saved my life?’ I asked.

  She stared at me, and in a low voice replied, ‘No. They would kill me if they knew. Don’t talk about it now, please.’

  Hearing this, I declared loudly that there was a problem with the cart wheel, and stopped to check it, allowing the others to move ahead. Once they were about fifty yards ahead, I wondered if she might relax a little. Linde still didn’t smile and was reluctant to speak at all, so most of the talking was left to me.

  ‘You saved my life, Linde. I cannot thank you enough.’ I looked at her, but she was staring straight ahead. ‘He was looking straight down the barrel at me. He couldn’t have missed,’ I continued, smiling. I was eager to show my gratitude, wanted her to like me.

  She stopped pulling the cart and looked me straight in the eye. ‘If you are so grateful, then why are you marching us to a death camp? You call it a refugee camp, but you are condemning us to death. You do know that, yes?’

  I was horrified by her words. Anja was holding her mother’s hand, hiding behind her skirt and looking up at me, wide-eyed.

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ I whispered.

  She stared at me for a few moments and then raised her hand in acknowledgement. ‘I know it’s not your fault,’ she replied quietly.