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I found the major in good fettle, and, as I had guessed, blazing off at the targets given by the B.M. As also he had passed on the orders to B Battery, who were three hundred yards away, we at any rate had two batteries in action. He explained to me that the Division despatch-rider had somehow failed to find Brigade Headquarters, but had come across him.
Only the Boche long-range guns were firing, and their shells were going well over our heads. And no more French infantry were coming up. 9.20 A.M.: The two Horse Artillery batteries were away. Our teams and limbers had come up, all except one team of C Battery. We waited for the colonel to give the word. Suddenly the "chug-chug-chug" of a motor-cycle: a despatch-rider from Division!
And then ah got fair daft." There was silence for a moment. "I found this," suddenly interrupted a despatch-rider. He was a fair-spoken youth, obviously of some education. He explained, in reply to our interrogatories, that he was a despatch-rider attached to a Signal Company of the R.E. He produced a cap, apparently from nowhere, by mere sleight of hand.
Just by the ambulance waggon he disappeared in a donga leading to the valley. My brother, who was a little higher up the reef than I was, could not hit him, as he appeared again only for a moment. He was most likely a despatch-rider who went to warn the guard at Commandonek to retreat.
"Some men tried to stop him on the road. He's a despatch-rider." "Isn't he ugly? Is he English?" "Irish." "You bet you, miss; Hirlanday; that's me.... You picked a good looker this toime, Yank. But wait till Oi git to Paree. Oi clane up a good hundre' pound on this job in bonuses. What part d'ye come from, Yank?" "Virginia. I live in New York."
It was impossible for his troops to escape, for they found themselves threatened on three sides. The sun had just gone down when my despatch-rider reached the English camp; and the officer in command was not long in sending him his reply, accompanied by an orderly. "Are you General De Wet?" the orderly asked me. "I am," replied I.
It was exactly 2 P.M. on the morrow. We were mounted and moving off to participate in this theoretical battle, when the "chug-chug-chug" of a motor-cycle caused us to look towards the hill at the end of the village street: a despatch-rider, wearing the blue-and-white band of the Signal Service. The envelope he drew from his leather wallet was marked "urgent."
Meanwhile I had procured some provisions at Glencoe, and for the time being we had nothing to complain about. This was the second time that I was killed, but one eventually gets used to that sort of thing. I sent, by the despatch-rider, this reply: "I and my commando are very much alive!" Adding: "Tell the General we want four slaughter oxen."
"Tell me we're going into the line in a day or two." "There's been a devil of a lot of artillery going up the road; French, British, every old kind." "Tell me they's raisin' hell in the Oregon forest." They walked slowly across the road. A motorcycle despatch-rider whizzed past them. "It's them guys has the fun," said Chrisfield. "I don't believe anybody has much." "What about the officers?"
Captain Lamswell of C Battery suddenly appearing, accompanied by young Beale of A Battery, we made our way to the mess, where Major Veasey and the adjutant were sorting out alterations in the operation orders just brought by a D.A. despatch-rider. Beale and Major Simpson slaughtered a few dozen flies, and accepted whiskies-and-sodas.
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