Isegoria

Having learned his lessons, BF falls back asleep and starts his second dream about The Defence of Duffer’s Drift:

I suddenly found myself dumped down at Duffer’s Drift with the same orders as already detailed, and an equal detachment composed of entirely different men. As before, and on every subsequent occasion, I had ample stores, ammunition, and tools. My position was precisely similar to my former one, with this important exception, running through my brain were four lessons.

As soon as I received my orders, therefore, I began to make out my plan of operations without wasting any time over the landscape, the setting sun, or the departing column, which, having off-loaded all our stores, soon vanished. I was determined to carry out all the lessons I had learnt as well as I knew how.

To prevent any strangers, friendly or otherwise, from coming into my position and spying out the elaborate defences I was going to make, I sent out at once two examining posts of one NCO and three men each, one to the top of Waschout Hill, and the other some 1000 meters out on the veld to the north of the drift. Their orders were to watch the surrounding country, and give the alarm in the event of the approach of any body of men whatever (Boers were, of course, improbable, but still just possible), and also to stop any individuals, friendly or not, from coming anywhere near camp and to shoot at once on non-compliance with the order to halt. If the newcomers had any provisions to sell, these were to be sent in with a list by one of the guard, who would return with the money, but the strangers were not to be allowed nearer the camp on any account.

Having thus arranged a safeguard against spies, I proceeded to choose a camping ground. I chose the site already described in my former dream, and for the same reasons, which still appealed to me. So long as I was entrenched, it appeared the best place around. We started making our trenches as soon as I had marked off a nice squarish little enclosure which would about contain our small camp. Though, of course, the north was the front, I thought, having a camp, it would be best to have an all-round defence as a sort of obstacle. The majority of the men were told off to dig, which they did not relish, a few being detailed to pitch camp and prepare tea. As the length of trench was rather great for the available number of diggers, and the soil was hard, we were only able by dark, by which time the men were quite done up by their hard day, to make quite a low parapet and shallow trench. Still we were “entrenched,” which I was the great thing, and the trench was all round our camp, so we were well prepared, even should we be attacked during the night or early next morning, which, was quite unlikely.

During this time one or two strangers had approached the guard of the north from a farm under Incidentamba. As they had eggs and butter, etc., to sell, these were brought in as arranged for. The man sent in with the stuff reported that the elder of the Dutchmen was a most pleasant man, and had sent me a present of a pat of butter and some eggs, with his compliments, and would I allow him to come in and speak to me? However, not being such a fool as to allow him in my defences, I went out instead, in case he had any information. His only information was that there were no Boers anywhere near. He was an old man, but though he had a museum of passes, I was not to be chloroformed by them into confidence. As he seemed friendly, and possibly loyal, I walked part of the way back to his farm with him, in order to look around. At dark the two examining posts came in, and two guards were mounted close by the object I was to watch, namely, the drift, at the same places as in my previous dream. This time, however, there was no half-hourly shouting, nor were there any fires, and the sentries had orders not to challenge but to shoot any person they might see outside camp at once.

They were placed standing down the river bank, just high enough to see over the top, and were thus not unnecessarily exposed. Teas had been eaten, and all fires put out at dusk, and after dark all turned in, but in the trenches instead of in tents. After going round sentries to see everything snug for the night, I lay down myself with a sense of having done my duty, and neglected no possible precaution for our safety.

The first dream of The Defence of Duffer’s Drift does not end well:

I was suddenly awoken, about the grey of dawn, by a hoarse cry, “Halt who goes….” cut short by the unmistakable “plipplop” of a Mauser rifle. Before I was off my valise, the reports of Mausers rang round the camp from every side, these, mingled with the smack of the bullets as they hit the ground and stripped, the “zipzip” of the leaden hail through the tents, and the curses and groans of men who were hit as they lay or stumbled about trying to get out, made a hellish din. There was some wild shooting in return from my men, but it was all over in a moment, and as I managed to wriggle out of my tent the whole place was swarming with bearded men, shooting into the heaving canvas. At that moment I must have been clubbed on the head for I knew no more until I found myself seated on an empty case having my head, which was dripping with blood, tied up by one of my men.

Our losses were 10 men killed, including both sentries, and 21 wounded; the Boers’ had one killed and two wounded.

Later on, as, at the order of the not ill-natured but very frowzy Boer commandant, I was gloomily taking off the saucy warm spotted waistcoat knitted for me by my sister, I noticed our friends of the previous evening in very animated and friendly conversation with the burghers, and “Pappa” was, curiously enough, carrying a rifle and bandolier and my new field-glasses. He was laughing and pointing towards something lying on the ground, through which he finally put his foot. This, to my horror, I recognised as my unhappy camera. Here, I suppose, my mind must have slightly wandered, for I found myself repeating some Latin lines, once my favourite imposition, but forgotten since my school-days – “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes….” when suddenly the voice of the field cornet broke into my musing with “Your breeches too, captain.”

Trekking all that day on foot, sockless, and in the boots of another, I had much to think of besides my throbbing head. The sight of the long Boer convoy with guns, which had succeeded so easily in crossing the drift I was to have held, was a continual reminder of my failure and of my responsibility for the dreadful losses to my poor detachment, I gradually gathered from the Boers what I had already partly guessed, namely, that they had been fetched and guided all round our camp by friend Brink, had surrounded it in the dark, crawling about in the bush on the river bank, and had carefully marked down our two poor sentries. These they had at once shot on the alarm being given, and had then rushed the camp from the dense cover on three sides. Towards evening my head got worse, and its rhythmic throbbing seemed gradually to take a meaning, and hammered out the following lessons, the result of much pondering on my failure:

1. Do not put off taking your measures of defence till the morrow, as these are more important than the comfort of your men or the shipshape arrangement of your camp. Choose the position of your camp mainly with reference to your defence.
2. Do not in war-time show stray men of the enemy’s breed all over your camp, be they never so kind and full of butter, and do not be hypnotised, by numerous “passes,” at once to confide in them.
3. Do not let your sentries advertise their position to the whole world, including the enemy, by standing in the full glare of a fire, and making much noise every half-hour.
4. Do not, if avoidable, be in tents when bullets are ripping through them; at such times a hole in the ground is worth many tents.

After these lessons had been dinned into my soul millions and millions of times, so that I could never forget them, a strange thing came to pass — there was a kaleidoscopic change — I had another dream.

In his first dream of The Defence of Duffer’s Drift, BF comes up with these orders:

After a moment’s consideration, I decided to pitch my small camp on a spot just south of the drift, because it was slightly rising ground, which I knew should be chosen for a camp whenever possible. It was, moreover, quite close to the drift, which was also in its favour, for, as every one knows, if you are told off to guard anything, you mount a guard quite close to it, and place a sentry, if possible, standing on top of it. The place I picked out also had the river circling round three sides of it in a regular horseshoe bend, which formed a kind of ditch, or, as the book says, “a natural obstacle.” I was indeed lucky to have such an ideal place close at hand; nothing could have been more suitable.

I came to the conclusion that, as the enemy were not within a hundred miles, there would be no need to place the camp in a state of defence till the following day. Besides, the men were tired after their long trek, and it would be quite as much as they could do comfortably to arrange nice and shipshape all the stores and tools, which had been dumped down anyhow in a heap, pitch the camp, and get their teas before dark.

Between you and me, I was really relieved to be able to put off my defensive measures till the morrow, because I was a wee bit puzzled as to what to do. In fact, the more I thought, the more puzzled I grew. The only “measures of defence” I could recall for the moment were, how to tie “a thumb or overhand knot,” and how long it takes to cut down an apple tree of six inches diameter. Unluckily neither of these useful facts seemed quite to apply. Now, if they had given me a job like fighting the battle of Waterloo, or Sedan, or Bull Run, I knew all about that, as I had crammed it up and been examined in it too. I also knew how to take up a position for a division, or even an army corps, but the stupid little subaltern’s game of the defence of a drift with a small detachment was, curiously enough, most perplexing, I had never really considered such a thing. However, in the light of my habitual dealings with army corps, it would, no doubt, be child’s-play after a little thought.

Having issued my immediate orders accordingly, I decided to explore the neighbourhood, but was for a moment puzzled as to which direction I should take; for, having no horse, I could not possibly get all round before dark. After a little thought, it flashed across my mind that obviously I should go to the north. The bulk of the enemy being away to the north, that of course must be the front. I knew naturally that there must be a front, because in all the schemes I had had to prepare, or the exams I had undergone, there was always a front, or “the place where the enemies come from.” How often, also, had I not had trouble in getting out of a dull sentry which his “front” and what his “beat” was. The north, then, being my front, the east and west were my flanks, where there might possibly be enemies, and the south was my rear, where naturally there were none.

I settled these knotty points to my satisfaction, and off I trudged, with my field-glasses, and, of course, my Kodak, directing my steps towards the gleaming white walls of the little Dutch farm, nestling under the kopje to the north-east. It was quite a snug little farm for South Africa, and was surrounded by blue gums and fruit trees. About a quarter of a mile from the farm I was met by the owner, Mr. Andreas Brink, a tame or surrendered Boer farmer, and his two sons, Piet and Gert, “Such a nice man too,” with a pleasant face and long beard. He would insist on calling me “Captain,” and as any correction might have confused him, I did not think it worth while to make any, and after all I wasn’t so very far from my “company.” The three of them positively bristled with dog’s-eared and dirty passes from every Provost Marshal in South Africa, and these they insisted on showing me. I had not thought of asking for them, and was much impressed, to have so many they must be special men. They escorted me to the farm, where the good wife and several daughters met us, and gave me a drink of milk, which was most acceptable after my long and dusty trek. The whole family appeared either to speak or to understand English, and we had a very friendly chat, during the course of which I gathered that there were no Boer commandos anywhere within miles, that the whole family cordially hoped that there never would be again, and that Brink was really a most loyal Briton, and had been much against the war, but had been forced to go on commando with his two sons. Their loyalty was evident, because there was an oreograph of the Queen on the wall, and one of the numerous flappers was playing our National Anthem on the harmonium as I entered.

The farmer and the boys took a great interest in all my personal gear, especially a brand-new pair of the latest-pattern field-glasses, which they tried with much delight, and many exclamations of “Allermachtig.” They evidently appreciated them extremely, but could not imagine any use for my Kodak in war-time, even after I had taken a family group. Funny, simple fellows! They asked and got permission from me to sell milk, eggs and butter in the camp, and I strolled on my way, congratulating myself on the good turn I was thus able to do myself and detachment, none of whom had even smelt such luxuries for weeks.

After an uneventful round, I directed my steps back towards the thin blue threads of smoke, rising vertically in the still air, which alone showed the position of my little post, and as I walked the peacefulness of the whole scene impressed me. The landscape lay bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, whose parting rays tinged most strongly the various heights within view, and the hush of approaching evening was only broken by the distant lowing of oxen, and by the indistinct and cheerful camp, noises, which gradually grew louder as I approached. I strolled along in quite a pleasant frame of mind, meditating over the rather curious names which Mr. Brink had given me for the surrounding features of the landscape. The kopje above his farm was called Incidentamba, the flat-topped mountain some two miles to the north was called Regret Table Mountain, and the gently rising hill close to the drift on the south of the river they called Waschout Hill. Everything was going on well, and the men were at their teas when I got back. The nice Dutchman with his apostolic face and the lanky Piet and Gert were already there, surrounded by a swarm of men, to whom they were selling their wares at exorbitant rates. The three of them strolled about the camp, showing great interest in everything, asking most intelligent questions about the British forces and the general position of affairs and seemed really relieved to have a strong British post near. They did not even take offence when some of the rougher man called them “blarsted Dutchmen,” and refused to converse with them, or buy their “skoff.” About dusk they left, with many promises to return with a fresh supply on the morrow.

After writing out my orders for next day — one of which was for digging some trenches round the camp, an operation which I knew my men, as becomes good British soldiers, disliked very much, and regarded as fatigues — I saw the two guards mounted, one at the drift, and the other some little way down the river, each furnishing one sentry on the river bank.

When all had turned in, and the camp was quite silent, it was almost comforting to hear the half-hourly cry of the sentries. “Number one — all is well!; Number two — all is well!” By this sound I was able to locate them, and knew they were at their proper posts. On going round sentries about midnight, I was pleased to find that they were both alert, and that, as it was a cold night, each guard had built a bonfire silhouetted in the cheerful blaze of which stood the sentry — a clear-cut monument to all around that here was a British sentry fully on the qui-vive. After impressing them with their orders, the extent of their “beat,” and the direction of their “front,” etc., I turned in. The fires they had built, besides being a comfort to themselves, were also useful to me, because twice during the night when I looked out I could, without leaving my tent, plainly see them at their posts. I finally fell asleep, and dreamt of being decorated with a crossbelt made of V.Cs and D.S.O.s, and of wearing red tabs all down my back.

It doesn’t go so swimmingly.

The opening of the first dream of The Defence of Duffer’s Drift sets the scene:

I felt lonely, and not a little sad, as I stood on the bank of the river near Duffer’s Drift and watched the red dust haze, raised by the southward departing column in the distance, turn slowly into gold as it hung in the afternoon sunlight. It was just three o’clock, and here I was on the banks of the Silliaasvogel river, left behind by my column with a party of fifty NCOs and men to hold the drift. It was an important ford, because it was the only one across which wheeled traffic could pass for some miles up or down the river.

The river was a sluggish stream, not now in flood, crawling along at the very bottom of its bed between steep banks which were almost vertical, or at any rate too steep for wagons anywhere except at the drift itself. The banks from the river edge to their tops and some distance outwards, were covered with dense thorn and other bushes, which formed a screen impenetrable to the sight. They were also broken by small ravines and holes, where the earth had been eaten away by the river when in flood, and were consequently very rough. See Map 1.

Some 2000 odd meters north of the drift was a flat-topped, rocky mountain, and about a mile to the north-east appeared the usual suger-loaf kopje, covered with bushes and boulders — steep on the south, but gently falling to the north; this had a farm on the near side of it. About 1000 meters south of the drift was a convex and smooth hill, somewhat like an inverted basin, sparsely sown with small boulders, and with a Kaffir kraal, consisting of a few grass mud huts on top. Between the river and the hills on the north the ground consisted of open and almost level veld; on the south bank the veld was more undulating, and equally open. The whole place was covered with ant-hills.

My orders were to hold Duffer’s Drift at all costs. I should probably be visited by some column within three or four day’s time. I might possibly be attacked before that time, but this was very unlikely, as no enemy were known to be within a hundred miles. The enemy had guns.

It all seemed plain enough, except that the true inwardness of the last piece of information did not strike me at the time. Though in company with fifty “good men and true,” it certainly made me feel somewhat lonely and marooned to be left out there comparatively alone on the boundless veld; but the chance of an attack filled me, and I am quite sure, my men, with martial ardour. At last here was the chance I had so often longed for. This was my first “show,” my first independent command, and I was determined to carry out my order to the bitter end. I was young and inexperienced, it is true, but I had passed all my examinations with fair success; my men were a good willing lot, with the traditions of a glorious regiment to uphold, and would, I knew, do all I should require of them. We were also well supplied with ammunition and rations and had a number of picks, shovels, and sandbags, etc., which I confess had been rather forced on me.

As I turned towards my gallant little detachment, visions of a bloody and desperate fight crossed my mind — a fight to the last cartridge, and then an appeal to cold steel, with ultimate victory and — but a discreet cough at my elbow brought me back to realities, and warned me that my colour-sergeant was waiting for orders.

To a modern audience — especially to a geeky modern audience — this is obviously the opening to a choose-your-own-adventure book or a roleplaying-game adventure module. So, what orders to you give your colour-sergeant?