Impressions of a War Correspondent | Page 2

but the historian of to-day--of his day--this
day--whose day-page of history is read by hundreds of readers, the day
after has set to him a task that calls for all, and more than all, that he
can give--stimulates while it appalls, and would be killingly wearying
if it were not so fascinatingly attractive. That close contact with the
men of this struggling world, and the men who do things, and shove
these life-wheels round, warms up in one a great love for one's kind--a
comrade feeling, like that which comes from being tent-mates in a long
campaign. Two o'clock in the morning wake to the tramp, tramp of men
marching in the dark--marching out to fight--and the unknown Tommy
you march beside and talk to in low voice, as men talk at that hour, is
your comrade unto the day's end of fighting; when returning, to the

sentries' challenge you answer "A friend," and, dog-tired, you re-enter
the lines, welcomed by his sesame call, "Pass, friend; all is well."

IMPRESSIONS OF A WAR CORRESPONDENT

I
THE DANCE OF DEATH
Death from a Mauser bullet is less painful than the drawing of a tooth.
Such, at least, appears to be the case, speaking generally from apparent
evidence, without having the opportunity of collecting the opinions of
those who have actually died. In books we have read of shrieks of
expiring agony; but ask those who have been on many battlefields, and
they will not tell you they have heard them. As a rule a sudden
exclamation, "I'm hit!" "My God!" "Damn it!" They look as if
staggering from the blow of a fist rather than that from a tiny pencil of
lead--then a sudden paleness, perhaps a grasping of the hands
occasionally as if to hold on to something, when the bottom seems to
be falling out of all things stable, but generally no sign of aught else
than the dulling of death--dulling to sleep--a drunken sleep--drunken
death it often seems--very commonplace as a rule. A smile as often as,
or oftener than, any sign of pain, but generally no sign of either. Think
of this, mourning mothers of England. Don't picture your sons as
drowning out of the world racked with the red torture from the bullet's
track, but just as dropping off dully to sleep, most probably with no
thought of you or home, without anxiety or regret. Merciful Mauser!
He suffered much more pain when you brought him long ago to the
dentist, and his agony in that horrible chair was infinitely greater than
on his bed on the veldt. Merciful Mauser be thanked!
The first man I saw badly hit during the war was a Devon at
Elandslaagte, just after they had advanced within rifle-range. He was
shot through the head, and it seemed quite useless for the bearers to
take the trouble of carrying him off the field; yet they went back

looking in vain for a field ambulance. They carried him instead to the
cart belonging to a well-known war correspondent. The owner had
given the driver strict orders to remain where he was until his return,
but the shells were falling around the cart, which, in fact, seemed to be
made a mark of by the Boer gunners--perhaps they thought it belonged
to one of our generals, whom they may have imagined had taken to
driving, like Joubert and some others of theirs. The arrival of the
wounded man was a great godsend to the driver, who immediately,
with the most humane insistence, offered to drive him to the nearest
field hospital. Neither cart nor driver was again seen until long after the
battle was over, about nine o'clock in the evening. Strange to say, the
man recovered from his wound.
In our first engagements there was rather too much anxiety on the part
of a wounded man's comrades to carry him to the rear; but it did not
continue for long. The actuating motive is not always kindness and
humanity, but a desire to get out of danger. It was soon evident that it
was only going from the frying-pan into the fire, as the danger of
walking back carrying a wounded man was immensely greater than
remaining or advancing more or less on one's stomach. Sometimes it
was the unfortunate wounded man who was hit again. Men carrying off
a wounded comrade of course render themselves strictly liable to be
regarded as combatants.
A still more absurd practice was that of sometimes attempting to carry
off the dead during an engagement. An instance of this was seen at
Rietfontein. A couple of men of a Volunteer regiment were coming
across the open ground below the hill under a pretty brisk fire, when Dr.
H----, himself one of the most fearless of men,