Part 3

Down the tin street, ’alf awake an’ unfed, ’Ark to ’em blessin’ the Gen’ral in bed! Now by the church an’ the outspan they wind-- Over the ridge an’ it’s all lef’ be’ind _For the section_, etc.

Soon they will camp as the dawn’s growin’ grey, Roll up for coffee an’ sleep while they may-- _The section_, etc.

Read their ’ome letters, their papers an’ such, For they’ll move after dark to astonish the Dutch _With a section_, etc.

’Untin’ for shade as the long hours pass, Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass, _Lies the section_, etc.

Dossin’ or beatin’ a shirt in the sun, Watching chameleons or cleanin’ a gun, _Waits the section_, etc.

With nothin’ but stillness as far as you please, An’ the silly mirage stringin’ islands an’ seas _Round the section_, etc.

So they strips off their hide an’ they grills in their bones, Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones _Towards the section_, etc.

An’ the Mauser-bird stops an’ the jackals begin, An’ the ’orse-guard comes up and the Gunners ’ook in _As a ’int to the pompom an’ six ’undred men_....

Off through the dark with the stars to rely on-- (Alpha Centauri an’ somethin’ Orion) _Moves the section_, etc.

Same bloomin’ ’ole which the ant-bear ’as broke, Same bloomin’ stumble an’ same bloomin’ joke _Down the section_, etc.

Same ‘which is right?’ where the cart-tracks divide, Same ‘give it up’ from the same clever guide _To the section_, etc.

Same tumble-down on the same ’idden farm, Same white-eyed Kaffir ’oo gives the alarm _Of the section_, etc.

Same shootin’ wild at the end o’ the night, Same flyin’ tackle an’ same messy fight _By the section_, etc.

Same ugly ’iccup an’ same ’orrid squeal, When it’s too dark to see an’ it’s too late to feel _In the section_, etc.

(Same batch of prisoners, ’airy an’ still, Watchin’ their comrades bolt over the ’ill _From the section_, etc.)

Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun As ’e gets up displeasured to see what was done _By the section_, etc.

Same splash o’ pink on the stoep or the kraal, An’ the same quiet face which ’as finished with all _In the section, the pompom, an’ six ’undred men_.

_Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!) ’Oo is it ’eads to the Detail Supply? (A section, a pompom, an’ six ’undred men.)_

THE PARTING OF THE COLUMNS [Page 77]

‘... On the --th instant a mixed detachment of colonials left ---- for Cape Town, there to rejoin their respective homeward-bound contingents, after fifteen months’ service in the field. They were escorted to the station by the regular troops in garrison and the bulk of Colonel ----’s column, which has just come in to refit, preparatory to further operations. The leave-taking was of the most cordial character, the men cheering each other continuously.’--_Any Newspaper._

We’ve rode and fought and ate and drunk as rations come to hand. Together for a year and more around this stinkin’ land: Now you are goin’ home again, but we must see it through. We needn’t tell we liked you well. Good-bye--good luck to you!

You ’ad no special call to come, and so you doubled out, And learned us how to camp and cook an’ steal a horse and scout: Whatever game we fancied most, you joyful played it too, And rather better on the whole. Good-bye--good luck to you!

There isn’t much we ’aven’t shared, since Kruger cut and run, The same old work, the same old skoff, the same old dust and sun; The same old chance that laid us out, or winked an’ let us through; The same old Life, the same old Death. Good-bye--good luck to you!

Our blood ’as truly mixed with yours--all down the Red Cross train, We’ve bit the same thermometer in Bloemingtyphoidtein. We’ve ’ad the same old temp’rature--the same relapses too, The same old saw-backed fever-chart. Good-bye--good luck to you!

But ’twasn’t merely this an’ that (which all the world may know), ’Twas how you talked an’ looked at things which made us like you so. All independent, queer an’ odd, but most amazin’ new, My word! you shook us up to rights. Good-bye--good luck to you!

Think o’ the stories round the fire, the tales along the trek-- O’ Calgary an’ Wellin’ton, an’ Sydney and Quebec; Of mine an’ farm, an’ ranch an’ run, an’ moose an’ cariboo, An’ parrots peckin’ lambs to death! Good-bye--good luck to you!

We’ve seen you ’ome by word o’ mouth, we’ve watched your rivers shine, We’ve ’eard your bloomin’ forests blow of eucalip’ and pine; Your young, gay countries north an’ south, we feel we own ’em too, For they was made by rank an’ file. Good-bye--good luck to you!

We’ll never read the papers now without inquirin’ first For word from all those friendly dorps where you was born an’ nursed. Why, Dawson, Galle, an’ Montreal--Port Darwin--Timaru, They’re only just across the road! Good-bye--good luck to you!

Good-bye!--So-long! Don’t lose yourselves--nor us, nor all kind friends, But tell the girls your side the drift we’re comin’--when it ends! Good-bye, you bloomin’ Atlases! You’ve taught us somethin’ new: The world’s no bigger than a kraal. Good-bye--good luck to you!

TWO KOPJES [Page 82]

(MADE YEOMANRY)

Only two African kopjes, Only the cart-tracks that wind Empty and open between ’em, Only the Transvaal behind; Only an Aldershot column Marching to conquer the land ... Only a sudden and solemn Visit, unarmed, to the Rand.

Then scorn not the African kopje, The kopje that smiles in the heat, The wholly unoccupied kopje, The home of Cornelius and Piet. You can never be sure of your kopje, But of this be you blooming well sure, A kopje is always a kopje, And a Boojer is always a Boer!

Only two African kopjes, Only the vultures above, Only baboons--at the bottom, Only some buck on the move; Only a Kensington draper Only pretending to scout ... Only bad news for the paper, Only another knock-out.

Then mock not the African kopje, And rub not your flank on its side, The silent and simmering kopje, The kopje beloved by the guide. _You can never be_, etc.

Only two African kopjes, Only the dust of their wheels, Only a bolted commando, Only our guns at their heels ... Only a little barb-wire, Only a natural fort, Only ‘by sections retire,’ Only ‘regret to report’!

Then mock not the African kopje, Especially when it is twins, One sharp and one table-topped kopje, For that’s where the trouble begins. _You can never be_, etc.

Only two African kopjes Baited the same as before-- Only we’ve had it so often, Only we’re taking no more ... Only a wave to our troopers, Only our flanks swinging past, Only a dozen voorloopers, Only _we_’ve learned it at last!

Then mock not the African kopje, But take off your hat to the same. The patient, impartial old kopje, The kopje that taught us the game! For all that we knew in the Columns, And all they’ve forgot on the Staff, We learned at the fight o’ Two Kopjes, Which lasted two years an’ a half.

_O mock not the African kopje, Not even when peace has been signed-- The kopje that isn’t a kopje-- The kopje that copies its kind. You can never be sure of your kopje, But of this be you blooming well sure, That a kopje is always a kopje. And a Boojer is always a Boer!_

THE INSTRUCTOR [Page 86]

(CORPORALS)

At times when under cover I ’ave said, To keep my spirits up an’ raise a laugh, ’Earin’ ’im pass so busy over-’ead-- Old Nickel Neck, ’oo isn’t on the Staff-- ‘_There’s one above is greater than us all_.’

Before ’im I ’ave seen my Colonel fall, An’ watched ’im write my Captain’s epitaph, So that a long way off it could be read-- He _’as_ the knack o’ makin’ men feel small-- Old Whistle Tip, ’oo isn’t on the Staff.

There is no sense in fleein’ (I ’ave fled), Better go on an’ do the belly-crawl, An’ ’ope ’e’ll ’it some other man instead Of you ’e seems to ’unt so speshual-- Fitzy van Spitz, ’oo isn’t on the Staff.

An’ thus in mem’ry’s gratis biograph, Now that the show is over, I recall The peevish voice an’ ’oary mushroom ’ead Of ’im we owned was greater than us all, ’Oo give instruction to the quick an’ the dead-- The Shudderin’ Beggar not upon the Staff.

BOOTS [Page 88]

(INFANTRY COLUMNS OF THE EARLIER WAR)

We’re foot--slog--slog--slog--sloggin’ over Africa! Foot--foot--foot--foot--sloggin’ over Africa-- (Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war!

Seven--six--eleven--five--nine-an’-twenty mile to-day-- Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before-- (Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war!

Don’t--don’t--don’t--don’t--look at what’s in front of you (Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up an’ down again); Men--men--men--men--men go mad with watchin’ ’em, An’ there’s no discharge in the war.

Try--try--try--try--to think o’ something different-- Oh--my--God--keep--me from goin’ lunatic! (Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up an’ down again!) There’s no discharge in the war.

Count--count--count--count--the bullets in the bandoliers; If--your--eyes--drop--they will get atop o’ you (Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up and down again)-- There’s no discharge in the war!

We--can--stick--out--’unger, thirst, an’ weariness, But--not--not--not--not the chronic sight of ’em-- Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up an’ down again, An’ there’s no discharge in the war!

’Tain’t--so--bad--by--day because o’ company, But night--brings--long--strings o’ forty thousand million Boots--boots--boots--boots, movin’ up an’ down again. There’s no discharge in the war!

I--’ave--marched--six--weeks in ’Ell an’ certify It--is--not--fire--devils dark or anything But boots--boots--boots, movin’ up an’ down again, An’ there’s no discharge in the war!

THE MARRIED MAN [Page 91]

(RESERVIST OF THE LINE)

The bachelor ’e fights for one As joyful as can be; But the married man don’t call it fun, Because ’e fights for three-- For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (An’ Two an’ One makes Three) ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea!

The bachelor pokes up ’is ’ead To see if you are gone; But the married man lies down instead, An’ waits till the sights come on. For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ a hit (Direct or ricochee) ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea.

The bachelor will miss you clear To fight another day; But the married man, ’e says ’No fear!’ ’E wants you out of the way Of ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (An’ ’is road to ’is farm or the sea), ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea.

The bachelor ’e fights ’is fight An’ stretches out an’ snores; But the married man sits up all night-- For ’e don’t like out o’ doors: ’E’ll strain an’ listen an’ peer An’ give the first alarm-- For the sake o’ the breathin’ ’e’s used to ’ear An’ the ’ead on the thick of ’is arm.

The bachelor may risk ’is ’ide To ’elp you when you’re downed; But the married man will wait beside Till the ambulance comes round. ’E’ll take your ’ome address An’ all you’ve time to say, Or if ’e sees there’s ’ope, ’e’ll press Your art’ry ’alf the day--

For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (An’ One from Three leaves Two), For ’e knows you wanted to finish your bit, An’ ’e knows ’oo’s wantin’ you. Yes, ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (Our ’oly One in Three), We’re all of us anxious to finish our bit, An’ we want to get ’ome to our tea!

Yes, It an’ ’Er an’ ’Im, Which often makes me think The married man must sink or swim An’--’e can’t afford to sink! Oh ’Im an’ It an’ ’Er Since Adam an’ Eve began, So I’d rather fight with the bachel_er_ An’ be nursed by the married man!

LICHTENBERG [Page 95]

(N.S.W. CONTINGENT)

Smells are surer than sounds or sights To make your heart-strings crack-- They start those awful voices o’ nights That whisper, ‘Old man, come back.’ That must be why the big things pass And the little things remain, Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain.

There was some silly fire on the flank And the small wet drizzling down-- There were the sold-out shops and the bank And the wet, wide-open town; And we were doing escort-duty To somebody’s baggage-train, And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg-- Riding in, in the rain.

It was all Australia to me-- All I had found or missed: Every face I was crazy to see, And every woman I’d kissed: All that I shouldn’t ha’ done, God knows! (As He knows I’ll do it again), That smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain!

And I saw Sydney the same as ever, The picnics and brass-bands; And the little homestead on Hunter River And my new vines joining hands. It all came over me in one act Quick as a shot through the brain-- With the smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain.

I have forgotten a hundred fights, But one I shall not forget-- With the raindrops bunging up my sights And my eyes bunged up with wet; And through the crack and the stink of the cordite (Ah Christ! My country again!) The smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain!

STELLENBOSH [Page 98]

(COMPOSITE COLUMNS)

The General ’eard the firin’ on the flank, An’ ’e sent a mounted man to bring ’im back The silly, pushin’ person’s name an’ rank ’Oo’d dared to answer Brother Boer’s attack. For there might ’ave been a serious engagement, An’ ’e might ’ave wasted ’alf a dozen men; So ’e ordered ’im to stop ’is operations round the kopjes, An’ ’e told ’im off before the Staff at ten!

And it all goes into the laundry, But it never comes out in the wash, ’Ow we’re sugared about by the old men (’Eavy-sterned amateur old men!) That ’amper an’ ’inder an’ scold men For fear o’ Stellenbosh!

The General ’ad ‘produced a great effect,’ The General ’ad the country cleared--almost; The General ‘’ad no reason to expect,’ And the Boers ’ad us bloomin’ well on toast! For we might ’ave crossed the drift before the twilight, Instead o’ sitting down an’ takin’ root; But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd, To the last survivin’ bandolier an’ boot.

The General saw the farm’ouse in ’is rear, With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun; Sez ’e, ‘I’ll pitch my tabernacle ’ere,’ An’ ’e kept us muckin’ round till ’e ’ad done. For ’e might ’ave caught the confluent pneumonia From sleepin’ in his gaiters in the dew; So ’e took a book an’ dozed while the other columns closed, And ----’s commando out an’ trickled through!

The General saw the mountain-range ahead, With their ’elios showin’ saucy on the ’eight, So ’e ’eld us to the level ground instead, An’ telegraphed the Boojers wouldn’t fight. For ’e might ’ave gone an’ sprayed ’em with a pompom, Or ’e might ’ave slung a squadron out to see-- But ’e wasn’t takin’ chances in them ’igh an’ ’ostile kranzes-- He was markin’ time to earn a K.C.B. The General got ’is decorations thick (The men that backed ’is lies could not complain), The Staff ’ad D.S.O.’s till we was sick, An’ the soldier--’ad the work to do again! For ’e might ’ave known the District was a ’otbed, Instead of ’andin’ over, upside-down, To a man ’oo ’ad to fight ’alf a year to put it right, While the General went an’ slandered ’im in town!

An’ it all went into the laundry, But it never came out in the wash. We were sugared about by the old men (Panicky, perishin’ old men) That ’amper an’ ’inder an’ scold men For fear o’ Stellenbosh!

HALF-BALLAD OF WATERVAL [Page 102]

When by the labour of my ’ands I’ve ’elped to pack a transport tight With prisoners for foreign lands, I ain’t transported with delight. I know it’s only just an’ right, But yet it somehow sickens me, For I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity.

Be’ind the pegged barb-wire strands, Beneath the tall electric light, We used to walk in bare-’ead bands, Explainin’ ’ow we lost our fight. An’ that is what they’ll do to-night Upon the steamer out at sea, If I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity.

_They_’ll never know the shame that brands-- Black shame no livin’ down makes white, The mockin’ from the sentry-stands, The women’s laugh, the gaoler’s spite. _We_ are too bloomin’ much polite, But that is ’ow I’d ’ave us be... Since I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity.

They’ll get those draggin’ days all right, Spent as a foreigner commands, An’ ’orrors of the locked-up night, With ’Ell’s own thinkin’ on their ’ands. I’d give the gold o’ twenty Rands (If it was mine) to set ’em free ... For I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity!

PIET [Page 104]

(REGULAR OF THE LINE)

I do not love my Empire’s foes, Nor call ’em angels; still, What _is_ the sense of ’atin’ those ’Oom you are paid to kill? So, barrin’ all that foreign lot Which only joined for spite, Myself, I’d just as soon as not Respect the man I fight. Ah there, Piet!--’is trousies to ’is knees, ’Is coat-tails lyin’ level in the bullet-sprinkled breeze; ’E does not lose ’is rifle an’ ’e does not lose ’is seat, I’ve known a lot o’ people ride a dam’ sight worse than Piet!

I’ve ’eard ’im cryin’ from the ground Like Abel’s blood of old, An’ skirmished out to look, an’ found The beggar nearly cold; I’ve waited on till ’e was dead (Which couldn’t ’elp ’im much), But many grateful things ’e’s said To me for doin’ such. Ah there, Piet! whose time ’as come to die, ’Is carcase past rebellion, but ’is eyes inquirin’ why. Though dressed in stolen uniform with badge o’ rank complete, I’ve known a lot o’ fellers go a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

An’ when there wasn’t aught to do But camp and cattle-guards, I’ve fought with ’im the ’ole day through At fifteen ’undred yards; Long afternoons o’ lyin’ still, An’ ’earin’ as you lay The bullets swish from ’ill to ’ill Like scythes among the ’ay. Ah there, Piet!--be’ind ’is stony kop, With ’is Boer bread an’ biltong, an’ ’is flask of awful Dop; ’Is Mauser for amusement an’ ’is pony for retreat, I’ve known a lot o’ fellers shoot a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

He’s shoved ’is rifle ’neath my nose Before I’d time to think, An’ borrowed all my Sunday clo’es An’ sent me ’ome in pink; An’ I ’ave crept (Lord, ’ow I’ve crept!) On ’ands an’ knees I’ve gone, And spoored and floored and caught and kept An’ sent him to Ceylon! Ah there, Piet!--you’ve sold me many a pup, When week on week alternate it was you an’ me ‘’ands up!’ But though I never made _you_ walk man-naked in the ’eat, I’ve known a lot of fellows stalk a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

From Plewman’s to Marabastad, From Ookiep to De Aar, Me an’ my trusty friend ’ave ’ad, As you might say, a war; But seein’ what both parties done Before ’e owned defeat, I ain’t more proud of ’avin’ won, Than I am pleased with Piet. Ah there, Piet!--picked up be’ind the drive! The wonder wasn’t ’ow ’e fought, but ’ow ’e kep’ alive, With nothin’ in ’is belly, on ’is back, or to ’is feet-- I’ve known a lot o’ men behave a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

No more I’ll ’ear ’is rifle crack Along the block’ouse fence-- The beggar’s on the peaceful tack, Regardless of expense. For countin’ what ’e eats an’ draws, An’ gifts an’ loans as well, ’E’s gettin’ ’alf the Earth, because ’E didn’t give us ’Ell! Ah there, Piet! with your brand-new English plough, Your gratis tents an’ cattle, an’ your most ungrateful frow. You’ve made the British taxpayer rebuild your country-seat-- I’ve known some pet battalions charge a dam’ sight less than Piet.

‘WILFUL-MISSING’ [Page 110]

There is a world outside the one you know, To which for curiousness ’Ell can’t compare-- It is the place where ‘wilful-missings’ go, As we can testify, for we are there.

You may ’ave read a bullet laid us low, That we was gathered in ‘with reverent care’ And buried proper. But it was not so, As we can testify, for we are there.

They can’t be certain--faces alter so After the old aasvogel’s ’ad ’is share; The uniform’s the mark by which they go-- And--ain’t it odd?--the one we best can spare.

We might ’ave seen our chance to cut the show-- Name, number, record, an’ begin elsewhere-- Leavin’ some not too late-lamented foe One funeral--private--British--for ’is share.

We may ’ave took it yonder in the Low Bush-veldt that sends men stragglin’ unaware Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go, An’ they are left past call or count or care.

We might ’ave been your lovers long ago, ’Usbands or children--comfort or despair. Our death (an’ burial) settles all we owe, An’ why we done it is our own affair.

Marry again, and we will not say no, Nor come to bastardise the kids you bear: Wait on in ’ope--you’ve all your life below Before you’ll ever ’ear us on the stair.

There is no need to give our reasons, though Gawd knows we all ’ad reasons which were fair; But other people might not judge ’em so, And now it doesn’t matter what they were.

What man can size or weigh another’s woe? There are some things too bitter ’ard to bear. Suffice it we ’ave finished--Domino! As we can testify, for we are there, In the side-world where ‘wilful-missings’ go.

UBIQUE [Page 113]

There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may-- ‘You bike,’ ‘you bykwe,’ ‘ubbikwe’--alludin’ to R.A. It serves ’Orse, Field, an’ Garrison as motto for a crest, An’ when you’ve found out all it means I’ll tell you ’alf the rest.

Ubique means the long-range Krupp be’ind the low-range ’ill-- Ubique means you’ll pick it up an’ while you do stand still. Ubique means you’ve caught the flash an’ timed it by the sound. Ubique means five gunners’ ’ash before you’ve loosed a round.

Ubique means Blue Fuse, an’ make the ’ole to sink the trail. Ubique means stand up an’ take the Mauser’s ’alf-mile ’ail. Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can ’old. Ubique means that ’orse’s scream which turns your innards cold!

Ubique means ‘Bank, ’Olborn, Bank--a penny all the way’-- The soothin’, jingle-bump-an’-clank from day to peaceful day. Ubique means ‘They’ve caught De Wet, an’ now we shan’t be long.’ Ubique means ‘I much regret, the beggar’s goin’ strong!’

Ubique means the tearin’ drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud, The khaki muzzles duck an’ lift across the khaki flood. Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers. Ubique means mirage again an’ shellin’ all outdoors.

Ubique means ‘Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein’! Ubique means ‘Off-load your guns’--at midnight in the rain! Ubique means ‘More mounted men. Return all guns to store.’ Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps!