BLUE SHIRT AND KHAKI

Blue Shirt and Khaki at Malta.

BLUE SHIRT
AND KHAKI
A COMPARISON

By JAMES F. J. ARCHIBALD

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
TAKEN BY THE AUTHOR

SILVER, BURDETT AND
COMPANY, NEW YORK,
BOSTON, CHICAGO. 1901

Copyright, 1901, by
Silver, Burdett & Company

Press of I. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York

To the Memory of My Father,
F. A. Archibald, D.D., LL.D.

Contents

List of Illustrations

BLUE SHIRT AND KHAKI

CHAPTER I.
The New Soldier and his Equipment

A Guard at Pretoria.

A Guard at Pretoria.

When the Second Division under General Lawton swarmed up the fire-swept hill of El Caney, through an unremitting storm of bullets, Colonel Arthur Lee, of the British Royal Artillery, exclaimed, “I would not have believed it!”

Two years later, when Lord Roberts’s army of ragged khaki poured into Pretoria after their two thousand miles’ march from the Cape, Captain Slocum, of the United States Infantry, said, “Tommy Atkins is certainly a wonder.”

There is obvious reason for a detailed comparison between the fighting men of the United States and Great Britain. They have more in common than either army has with the soldiers of any other nation. They have both during the last three years fought testing wars against other civilized nations, in which they faced for the first time the new conditions of modern warfare. The relative qualifications of the two armies have a pressing bearing on the troublous questions of alliance or disputes yet to be between them. When the soldiers of these two nations meet now, each has a sense of their peculiar relation of mutuality, which is made piquant by the uncertainty whether they will continue to support one another, as in China, or whether there is an evil day in store when they shall have to cut one another’s throats. But whatever the uncertainty, and whatever the surface criticisms which each passes upon the other, there is at bottom both respect and fraternity on the part of each.

The American soldier to-day occupies a new place in the regard of the world. Up to the campaigning of July and August, 1898, in Cuba, Porto Rico, and Luzon, the military men of Europe were accustomed to think of the fighting force of the United States as a thing too small to be considered. They had forgotten the great Civil War, and they did not comprehend our vast resources for a volunteer army. A standing army of 25,000 men was insignificant to officers and statesmen who were accustomed to estimate a national force in the terms of millions. Consequently, the martial potency of the United States had fallen into general contempt. This judgment, however, was wholly changed in the space of a few months, and instead of considering our military force on a level with that of some little South American republic, Europe suddenly comprehended that there was a new military power in the world which had not been taken into account. From the time that over two million men responded to the President’s call for 200,000 volunteers—many of them fairly trained soldiers, and nearly all of them skilled in the use of firearms—the sentiment of Europe was changed.

Captain Arthur Lee, R. A., attaché with General Shafter in Cuba.

Captain Slocum, U.S.A., attaché with Lord Roberts in South Africa.

There was a more radical change in the public sentiment of England than anywhere else. At the beginning of the Spanish-American War one London paper said, “Now we will see the boastful Yankee go down before the fighting Spaniard.” The general tone of the English press, if not directly hostile, was not friendly. But a few exhibitions of American arms changed the opinion to such a marked degree that soon there was hardly a hostile paper in all England. This popular reaction in favor of America is not, however, to be confused with the attitude of the British Government, which had been friendly from the start, and which had done our cause inestimable benefit through its forcible “hands off!” communication to other European powers. Nevertheless, this friendly disposition of the British Ministry was confirmed by its perception of the increasing prestige of the American military force both in England and on the Continent.

But if the American soldier seems only recently to have come to his own in the appreciation of Europe, he has long been the same soldier that he is to-day. To be sure, training and discipline have improved him as a product; our officers have made the study of the soldier a science, and each year has marked a finer adaptation of methods to ends; Yankee ingenuity has had fewer traditional prejudices to overcome than have prevailed abroad, and in the relations of officers and men, in the development of each unit’s individuality as a self-reliant intelligence, the later years have been a period of surprising evolution. But, on the other hand, the American soldier’s native quality is the same as in that Civil War which required four years of more terrible slaughter than Europe ever knew before one side would yield to the other. If we were always confident of him, our boasts were founded on an experience of his fibre which Europe had not apprehended. His valor, his quiet contempt of death, could not, in its most extreme exhibition, surprise his own countrymen. The only thing that robbed the gallant Hobson and his comrades of the highest distinction was that several thousand others on the fleet were sick with disappointment that they could not go in their place.

Nevertheless, the appreciation of Europe is agreeable, if belated.

The soldier of the Queen did not need a new opportunity to prove his quality. From the time that Cromwell’s Ironsides made the chivalry of the Continent to skip, Europe and America have had a steadfast respect for the redoubtability of the British warrior. Moreover, he has been a civilizing power throughout the world; wherever he has cleared a path, commerce has followed. It has not always seemed like Christian justice to hew a way for trade with a sword, or to subject an unwilling people to a rule of might under which they chafe and fret; but there is always one word of praise which can truthfully be said—the government that reaches from London to the remotest quarters of the globe has made the world better, happier, and securer, even through its conquests over unwilling peoples. Redcoat and khaki have stood for order, and, in the main and in the long run, for the largest justice to the largest number.

The time-honored phrase about the flag and trade is true. But few pause to consider the cost that is paid by the men of the empire who carry the flag forward that trade may follow. When the Queen issued the proclamation of war against the two republics nestled in the heart of South Africa, the world looked on and pitied the little States, and averred that such a war could not last more than a few weeks; but President Krüger said, “If England plants her flag on this land she will pay a price in blood that will stagger humanity.” She has paid that price for more than a year, and the payment is not yet complete. Never before has she paid such cost in the blood of her own sons. This is not the place to discuss the right and wrong of that struggle. Spite of all protests, it became a ghastly fact of history; from apparently impregnable kopjes, and their hillsides that were shambles, the determined English soldiers drive the unawed burghers over the vast veldts, fighting literally from rock to rock.

British soldiers visiting the U. S. troop-ship Sumner, en route to the Philippines.

It was my opportunity to be with both the Boer and British armies in South Africa, and to observe the fighting qualities of the men on both sides. After the Boers evacuated Pretoria, and I remained to witness the British operations, I came to agree with Captain Slocum that “Tommy Atkins is a wonder.” He certainly is. During two years spent in Europe I saw the great manœuvres on Salisbury Plain and at Aldershot; I have seen the British soldier on foreign garrison service and in the field; and, last, I have seen him in Africa, confronted by new problems and fighting against modern weapons in the hands of thinking men. From the point of view of this experience I venture to draw certain comparisons and contrasts between him and the American soldier, whose fighting steps I have followed in half a dozen campaigns, against the Indians in the West and also in the war with Spain.

The system of “crack” regiments in the British army has done much to injure the service of that country, as it has developed the “spit and polish” officer, as he is called in London—an imposing society soldier, useless in war. The men of these regiments are the pick of the nation, but unless there is an exceptional campaign they are not sent out. The Guards are usually ordered to the front long enough to get their medals, and then are sent home. During the last Soudan campaign the battalion of Guards was away from England only a few weeks, and were, as the late war correspondent, G. W. Steevens, said, “packed in ice, shipped to the front, and then shipped back.” During the Boer War the Guards have not had such an easy time, as it was necessary to use the whole army in active operations; and they have proved themselves good fighters when properly officered.

There is one exception to the rule of pampering the “crack” regiments in the case of the Gordon Highlanders, for they have seen the hardest service of every campaign since the organization of the regiment. Their glory is in fighting rather than in polo and cricket, in campaigning rather than in dancing.

The sturdy, practical soldiers have a large contempt for the youngster of birth who has received his commission through favoritism, and they never lose an opportunity of expressing it. While in Pretoria after the British occupation, I installed myself in one of the best houses in the city, having commandeered it when the owner, who was a British subject, fled. To make my position more secure I hung out a small American flag, so that I should not be disturbed. When the British entered the capital, General French’s cavalry division occupied the portion of the town in which my borrowed home stood, and I invited two or three of the officers of his staff to share the house with me. Some days after their acceptance an order was issued by the military governor to seize all horses in Pretoria, and a battalion of Guards was detailed to form a line across the city, making a clean sweep of every horse not already in governmental possession. I rode up to my door just as the line struck that vicinity, and the soldiers were leading out some of the horses belonging to the cavalry staff officers living with me. Lieutenant-Colonel Welsh, a thorough soldier, who has learned his profession by hard campaigning, was at the moment expostulating with a stupid officer of the Guards, who was just remarking, “Beastly business, this horse-stealing, but—aw—I have to do it, don’t you know?”

“Well, you can’t have my horse,” exclaimed Colonel Welsh, with an emphasis that told the Guardsman he was some one of importance.

That officer screwed his glass into his eye, looked about, and seeing the American flag, turned to Colonel Welsh, who was in full uniform, and said, “Oh, I say—are you the American consul fellow?”

This was too much for the old soldier, who fairly exploded in his indignation; but his pity for the poor Londoner prompted him to explain, with an amusing manner, that he had the honor of holding the Queen’s commission, and that foreign consuls were not in the habit of wearing the British uniform.

When the Ninth Infantry marched into Santiago to act as a guard of honor to General Shafter, and to participate in the raising of the flag over the palace, a Spanish officer standing by me on the cathedral steps asked if this was one of our “crack” regiments. I told him it was not, and he looked rather surprised.

“You don’t mean to say you have any more like this, do you?” he inquired.

British officers at Malta, watching the setting-up exercises of American soldiers.

“Why, they are all the same out there in the trenches,” I replied; but he evidently did not believe me, and then I realized that here was a regiment of men the like of whom the Spaniards had never seen, its smallest man taller than their tallest, its horses half a foot taller than theirs, and I ceased to wonder that he thought it a “crack” regiment. The army of the United States, when the Spanish War broke out, was superlative in its personnel. The hard times of a few years before had led hosts of men of exceptionally high grade to apply for enlistment, and of these fine applicants not more than one in ten had been taken; each regiment was a sifted remainder. But in our army it is the rule that if there is one regiment more “crack” than another, that is the one to have the honor of the hardest service.

In the use of government funds in the field the British army has a great advantage over our own force, for their officers are allowed much more freedom in expenditures for campaigning purposes. It is true that they use much more money in consequence, but in many cases it is essential that an army should have that freedom from red tape which is enjoyed by the British.

In South Africa every officer who has any occasion to use money is provided with a government check-book; when he wishes to buy stock, provisions, or forage he appraises the value himself and gives a check for the amount, or sometimes pays in gold on the spot. The British army, in consequence, pays the top price for everything; but, as they wish to conciliate the people as much as possible, it is a very good policy.

On the contrary, when an American officer wishes to buy anything for the government, he is obliged to have its value decided upon by a board, and then the payment is made through the tortuous channels of the paymaster’s department. Innumerable vouchers, receipts, affidavits, and money orders pass back and forth before the party who is selling receives the amount due him.

The right system is a mean between these two extremes; for the English method is as much too loose as ours is too stringent. The British government pays for its method every month thousands of pounds more than necessary. I watched a remount officer buy horses in Pretoria, and the prices he paid were staggering. The animals had been seized by the government troops, but payment was made to any one who came to the public square and laid claim to a horse. The officer in charge of the work happened to be an exceedingly good-natured and agreeable fellow, who said the people undoubtedly needed the money. He asked each person presenting a claim what he thought his animal worth, and almost invariably paid the full sum demanded, without a word of protest. He paid as high as £60 for animals not worth a third of that amount. It can well be imagined that the stock left in any of the towns by the burghers when they evacuated was not of a very high order, as they all went away mounted in the best possible style, and in many cases leading an extra horse. Every man in the Boer army is mounted, and well mounted, on native stock, that does not need to be fed with grain to be kept in good condition, as the veldt grass on which these horses live and thrive is similar to our prairie grass.

The equipment of the British army can in no way compare with that of the American soldiers; it is heavier, badly slung, and is far less useful. In the first place, the saddle used by both the cavalry and mounted infantry is almost double the weight of the McClellan pattern used by our army. The mounted infantry saddle is the flat seat known in this country as an “English saddle,” one which should be used only in the park or in racing. As it has no raised back it affords no rest to a man while on long rides. The cavalry saddle, especially that of the Lancers, has a slightly higher back and is somewhat easier; nevertheless, it is much too flat according to the American idea. The manner in which the mounted infantrymen ride is enough to show that the saddle is a very bad one for use in the field, for the rider has no command over his mount and no security of his seat; he keeps it merely on the sufferance of a good-natured horse.

The Canadian troops in South Africa created much comment because of their saddles, for the eastern contingent had the United States army McClellan saddle, and the western force rode the regular Montana “cowboy saddle.” About two thousand McClellan saddles had been condemned by our government inspectors on account of being a fraction of an inch too narrow across the withers; and the Canadian government, needing some uniform saddle in a great hurry, bought them. They were quite satisfactory for the Canadians, for their horses are smaller than the American animals, and the slight defect in construction made no difference. Henceforth, the McClellan saddle will be known as the “Canadian saddle” in England.

The Boers equipped themselves fully in saddles, bridles, blankets, and all other horse equipment from the stock they captured. There was not a saddle to be seen that did not come from the English ordnance stores, although in many cases the rider cut off all the extra flaps and threw away the heavy bags and pouches, which encumber the horse and are of no use.

The cavalry equipment of the American army weighs a total of ninety-eight pounds, including carbine and sabre; while that of the English service is at least fifty or sixty pounds more. There is one thing, however, in which their outfit is superior to ours—their saddles are built of fair leather. A black saddle is much harder to keep in good condition, and does not continue to look well nearly so long after it has been cleaned as does the brown leather. Our ordnance department is experimenting with fair leather equipments, and many have already been issued. Our cavalrymen hope that soon there will be no black saddles left in service.

The British infantry equipment is unpractical to an amazing degree; it is heavy and cumbersome, and includes accouterments that are needless. There is a heavy set of straps and cross-belts, suggesting the harness of a dray-horse, and all that this antique framework is useful for is to hold up the blanket, cartridge-box, and bayonet scabbard. The cartridge-boxes are as heavy as the cartridges themselves. I had a full kit such as is used in the American army, which I displayed one day to an officer of General French’s staff. He remarked:

“Oh, well, we shall have that some day. In about thirty years, when you have invented something much better, our War Office will adopt something like this.”

Wide admiration was expressed for my American rubber poncho blanket with its hole for the head, which adapts it for use as a coat, for the British have nothing like that. I saw the poor Tommies sleeping out, night after night, in a cold, pouring rain, with nothing over them but a woolen blanket. They have no field protection like our shelter tent to shield them from the weather, and it is surprising that there has been so little fever.

Our knapsack, also, is greatly superior to the British haversack bag, which must be carried in the hand when the troops are changing quarters or are embarking for a voyage. The knapsack is a light trunk, which will hold everything that a man needs for many weeks.

A company of the Eighth U. S. Infantry in the field, Lieutenant M. B. Stuart.

A review of the Life Guards in London.

It is doubtful if the helmet sees the light of another campaign, for it has been found to be more objectionable than ever when there is fighting to be done. The front visor is so long that it prevents the men from sighting their rifles, and if it is shoved back, the back visor strikes the shoulders and the helmet falls off. The soldier cannot keep it on his head when he is sleeping; he might as well go to war in an opera-hat. The felt field-hat has been adopted by nearly all the colonials and by some of the volunteers from England; and although the English have a difficult task to overcome the tradition attached to anything that has become a part of the service, and although the helmet gives the men a uniform and very military appearance, its eventual disappearance is inevitable.

There was a time when we learned much from England regarding military affairs, but that period has passed, and it would be to her conspicuous advantage to copy our excellent field equipment, as well as several other things.

I cannot say that I fully share the sentiment which reproaches the British government for the continued use of “dum-dum” bullets. At the Peace Conference at The Hague it will be remembered that the British representatives maintained the privilege of shooting with these bullets when the War Office so chose, against the protest of the other powers; and the Americans in this dispute stood with the British. Terrible as is their wound as compared with the neat, needle-like thrust of the Mauser bullet, for instance, in the long run they are the more merciful.

In South Africa both sides used these tearing projectiles to some extent, although they were not supposed to be issued. I saw some British prisoners brought into Pretoria who had a lot of “Mark IV” ammunition, which is the deadliest “dum-dum” made. The steel jacket of the bullet is split at the sides and at the nose, and when it strikes a body, these sides of the jacket curl outward with a ghastly result. It was afterwards stated by the British authorities that this “Mark IV” ammunition had been issued at Natal by mistake, as the British contest had always been that these bullets were intended solely for those savage foes who did not mind perforation with the clean little modern bullet.

The Boers, on their side, had considerable ammunition known as the “blue-nose bullet.” This projectile has no jacket at all over its leaden nose, which spreads out like a mushroom on reaching its target. The use of this was also the result of a mistake in issuance; it had been bought by the Transvaal government long before war was thought of, and was intended for sporting use, since the regular steel-jacket bullet would not stop big game. But, on the other hand, in many instances the burghers turned their regular jacket bullets into “dum-dums” by simply scraping off the steel at the nose, leaving the lead to flatten as it struck; when they had no file for this, they rubbed them against a rock.

The humane theory of the small calibre steel bullet is that when it strikes, unless it hits a vital spot, it does not mangle, but simply puts a man out of action, and that two more men take him to the rear, thus putting three out of action. But the theory does not work; for now that the magazine gun has multiplied every man in the trenches ten or twenty fold, no erect man of the attacking force can be spared to care for wounded comrades; consequently the man who falls is left where he is; no one can pay the slightest attention to him when every minute is infinitely precious and every stalking man is needed for the final instant. On the other hand, many of the wounds thus made are so slight that, if promptly cared for after the battle, the wounded men are able in a few days to be back with their regiments.

The little bullet darts through the soft part of leg or arm or body like a sewing-machine needle, and if a vital spot is not struck, and if no bones are shattered, the flesh closes up with beautiful repair; and if antisepticized the recovery is surprisingly quick. The prompt reappearance of these many slightly wounded men on the firing line is equivalent to a perpetual reënforcement; thus the campaign is prolonged indefinitely.

The humane sentiment is neutral as to the victory of either side in wars between civilized armies, and prays only that the slaughter and destruction may cease as soon as possible. If in the early weeks of the South African struggle each man hit had been wholly disabled, if not killed outright, it is inconceivable that the British people would have permitted the war to go on. If in the Philippines each native struck by an American bullet had been unable to recover and soon appear in arms again, that unhappy struggle would have ended long ago. Consequently, there is much to be considered before making a wholesale condemnation of the “dum-dum.” War cannot be anything but the most infernal thing on earth, and the sooner a campaign is over the better. We have to remind ourselves of the language of one of the generals in the Civil War to his officers: “Gentlemen, war means fight, and fight means kill; therefore the more you kill in any battle the sooner the misery of the war will end.”

CHAPTER II.
British and American Recruits

Horse Guard on duty at headquarters, London.

Horse Guard on duty at headquarters, London.

The British soldier as he appears in the streets of London is the finest thing to look at in the military world. Although to the unused American eye most of these beings seem to be a little theatric in appearance, they are all that could be desired in uniform, build, and military bearing. In a nation of big men they have been chosen primarily for their height and their chest measurement, and they can scarcely be criticised for the somewhat exaggerated jauntiness which betrays a consciousness of their superior looks.

On the other hand, the American soldier as he is seen in the streets of a garrison city is not marked by either self-consciousness or noticeable bigness. His uniform is not showy, although it fits well, and the man inside of it is well set up; he is wiry, spry, and although of soldierly bearing, is more to be remarked for his alertness of movement. You would never think of calling him a magnificent creature; the keen face under the visored cap might be that of a young mechanic, business man, or student who had learned how to wear a uniform easily.

The recruit of the British army is chosen on physical grounds, and his obvious proportions seem to have been particularly desired. The American soldier, as we see him, talk with him, and hear what his officers have to say of him, seems to have obtained his place because he is a good all-around man, with no more muscle than intelligence, and with soundness of teeth considered as important as extensiveness of height.

The recruiting of the British army is admirably managed by some of the cleverest sergeants in the service. They must be able to tell at a glance whether an applicant is likely to pass an examination, and then they must paint the glories and possibilities of a soldier’s life in sufficiently alluring colors to persuade the prospective recruit to accept the “King’s shilling.”

The recruiting of the British army is always an interesting feature of the military life of London, and one may see it any week-day morning under the walls of the gallery opposite the church of St.-Martin’s-in-the-Fields. This church is on the upper edge of Trafalgar Square, in the busiest part of the city, and from nine o’clock in the morning the work goes on all day. The various branches of the service place signboards on the fence of the gallery court, upon which are hung bills that set forth in glowing language the advantages to be gained by enlisting in this or that service; also stating the requirements, pay, and allowances. All these boards are hung side by side, and there is an unwritten law that should a man be reading or looking at one board, the sergeant representing another branch of the service, or another regiment, is not permitted to speak to him until he has passed on. As soon as he has left the board, any of the recruiting officers is at liberty to speak to him.

There are from ten to twenty non-commissioned officers on duty at this place every morning; they are the finest types of men in the British service, and always appear in their best uniforms. They nearly all have the rank of sergeant-major, consequently their uniforms glitter with gold lace and attract the youth who have an eye for the military. One old sergeant-major is a particularly conspicuous character, being a veteran of the Crimea. He is a very old man, has been seen at this same spot, on the same service, for many years, and has become as well known to the Londoner as the very buildings themselves. His hair and beard are snow-white, and the years of campaigning have left their mark on his face; but his step is as youthful and elastic as that of any of the younger men on the same duty, and on his breast are the medals of many wars, most of them being ribbons one never sees except at Chelsea. He is the most energetic man on the recruiting detail, and he very seldom makes an error as to the eligibility of an applicant.

Possible candidates.

Persuasion by sergeant-major.

All day long the passers-by are scanned by these sharp old soldiers, and are invited to join the forces of the empire and attain the glory that, according to the “sar’-major,” is sure to be his portion. The dignity with which the recruiting is done is very pleasing, for these officers, uncommissioned though they be, wear their uniforms with the grace of a major-general. When they approach a man, they do so with an air of authority, in a straightforward manner, and although they depict the attractions of the service beguilingly, they seldom attempt to gain a recruit against his will. Most of those who loiter about the boards come with their minds made up to enlist, and do not need any great amount of persuasion. The grade of recruits taken in this manner is said to be rather low, as they are generally of the class that does not like to work, and has a mistaken idea that a soldier has an easy life.

Another method of recruiting the British army is by “recruiting marches” through the rural districts. With their most attractive uniforms, colors flying, and music piping, a battalion makes the entry into a town on their march in such engaging style that many of the youths of the place are sure to cast their lot with the army on the impulse of the moment; and in this way some of the best men are found, as in Great Britain the country lad seems to make the best soldier.

In the United States it has not been found necessary to resort to these expedients to gain recruits. The recruiting offices in time of peace show a small but steady stream of callers; they are not from the degraded classes, nor are they ignorant men; they are young men of various social grades who, in many cases, have been advised by older men to enter the army, or who think they see in its discipline, regularity of life, and opportunity for promotion a promising opening for three years of trial.

The rigidity of the examinations is in itself an attraction to the young American. There is no other line of work for which he must submit to such searching competitive tests as he finds in the recruiting office. Physically he must be perfect; unsoundness of eye, ear, lung, heart, liver, skin, limbs, extremities, or any other defect, will debar him no less than would his inability to read and write.

There is also in the United States a continual fostering of the military spirit among the youth by means of the cadet corps in the public and private schools. Again, the fact that so many boys in America are taught to ride and shoot has its natural influence in leading large numbers of them to think of the army. The patriotic instruction and the devotion to the flag which are now so prominent a feature in the public schools, have also an influence in turning the minds of many young men to the national service.

Two exceedingly strong attractions which the American army presents, and which are lacking in the British army, are the inducements of good pay and of promotion. The English recruit enlists for a period of twelve years, without the opportunity of ever becoming more than a non-commissioned officer, and for the sum of twenty-four cents a day; while the American enlists for three years, with the possibility of becoming lieutenant-general commanding the army, and for pay which, including ration and clothing allowance, a portion of which thrifty men can commute into cash, amounts to at least one dollar a day, and from that up to three dollars and a half a day, together with twenty per cent. increase on all pay for active service. The American government provides that the paymaster shall take charge of any funds that the men do not wish to draw, and it pays a high rate of interest on these deposits. Thus, large numbers of our men have saved several thousand dollars out of their pay, and yet have lived well and had money to spend all the time.

The chief spur, however, that acts on the enlisted man in the army of the United States is not the money, but the possibility that some day he may become an officer. To commission an officer from the ranks in the British army is almost unheard of; while, on the contrary, a large number of the American non-commissioned officers and men receive their straps every year. The one thing that I could never make an English officer understand was that it is possible for our government to commission men from the ranks. They could appreciate how these men might be fully qualified as to their military knowledge, but they could not comprehend how it would be possible for the West Pointer to associate with them or to meet them on an equal footing in society. They could not understand that many of the men in the ranks are in the same station in life as are the West Point graduates. That social possibility is the result of different conditions. Many officers’ sons who wish to follow in the footsteps of their fathers are not fortunate enough to obtain an appointment to the Academy; these boys always enlist, and, to the credit of our government, they rarely fail to get a commission if they can qualify in the examinations.

British recruits at fencing practice.

British recruits at bayonet practice.

Moreover, the breeding as well as the intelligence of many of the men accepted for enlistment is of the same kind that is required of the applicants at West Point. In an army where every recruit must be able at least to read and write, it is impossible to find, even among the colored troops, any of that low-bred class of men which exists in large numbers in the British army. Before the war with Spain, when the army was on a peace footing, there were about five applicants for every vacancy; consequently the recruiting officer could choose with care, and an exceptionally high class of men entered the regular army.

It is a rare circumstance that puts a gentle-born Englishman into the ranks, and the discredit he suffers for enlisting is deep indeed; for soldiers and servants in England stand on the same footing. In the continental nations of Europe soldiering, while it is disliked, is considered as a matter of course, because it is compulsory upon all men to serve. But in England, where the service is voluntary, the private rank is not a nice place for the upper classes.

In New York, in Boston, in Chicago, it is not impossible to see the private’s blouse at a tea function or across the table at dinner, in the most refined society; after the instant’s surprise at seeing the insignia of the common soldier, it is remembered that he is present in his own right, irrespective of uniform, and he is admired for his unostentatious service of the flag.

Once a charming Larchmont belle told me, with the greatest pride, that she had a brother who was a soldier, and she showed me his picture. There were no straps on the shoulders, and the collar of his blouse was turned down.

“He is a private in the Seventh Artillery,” she said; “regulars, you know; and some day he will be an officer.”

“Some day ... an officer” tells the whole story; it indicates one of the vital differences between the British and the American soldier. When the former enlists in the army, he knows he will never get beyond a “non-com.;” while many of those who cast in their lot with the United States forces, do so with the anticipation that eventually they may hold the President’s commission.

At the outbreak of the South African War I met a young Englishman in London who was bubbling over with patriotic enthusiasm, and whose fixed idea was to go to the war, and to go quickly before it was over; but he told me that he had almost given up all hope of getting there, as he had exhausted every possible means of accomplishing his desire. He had been to the War Office to see every one, from Sir Evelyn Wood down; and although he was a relative of the Duke of Devonshire, and swung a great deal of influence, he could not make it; and yet he said that he “simply must go.”

“If you really want to go so much, why do you not enlist?” I asked.

“What! go as a Tommy?” he exclaimed; “why, I could not do that.” And, as a matter of fact, he could not, since the feeling against such a course is so strong that even in time of war it would not be countenanced by his social judges. I saw him again in the later months of the war, and he had attained his desire by going to the Cape on his own responsibility and recruiting a troop of colonials, afterwards receiving a commission to command it.

There are instances where men of social standing have enlisted in the British army, but they are very rare in comparison with those of the same class who answered the President’s call to arms at the beginning of the war with Spain; men who joined not only the volunteer branches of the American army, but who enlisted in large number as privates in the regular service.

General Hector Macdonald is an interesting exception in the British system. He rose from the ranks, and is to-day one of the best officers of the generals’ staff, and is loved, feared, and respected by his men.

For these various reasons it is easy to see why the personnel of the rank and file of the American army is much higher than that of the British. This is conspicuously true in the matter of mental attainments. In our army it is rare to find a man who is not fairly well educated, while the majority of the men in the ranks are considerably enlightened. There is not one illiterate man in the whole enlisted force.

On the other hand, the British army is dismally low in its standard of literacy. In the official report published in 1899, the illiterateness of the recruits receives scathing comment; only forty-five in one thousand were fairly educated; eighteen per cent. were utterly illiterate.

The same attractions tend to secure for the American army a larger proportion of healthy applicants than apply for admission in the British service. The official report which I have just quoted also states that thirty-five per cent. of all applicants for enlistment in the British army have to be rejected for physical disability.

In treating this subject before the United Service Institution in London, in 1899, Colonel Douglas, of the Royal service, described the recruits from the north, or country districts, as “sallow, downcast, nondescript youths, mostly artisans.” Regarding the recruits in general, he said: “It is significant that a good set of teeth is rare, except among the agricultural recruits. The old recruiting sergeant would have laughed at the recruits of to-day; the army of the past had in it many blackguards, but few degenerates. These are depressing conclusions, but it must be remembered that this refers to our peace army, which is recruited from the half-starved offscourings of the streets. The physique of the men who are offering themselves to-day, in time of war, is very different from this. There are shoals of Englishmen who cannot stand the drudgery and discipline of the ranks in time of peace, but who flock to the standard as soon as there is a chance of fighting. The recruiting sergeants say that nearly all of the material they are getting at present is of a better class. These men want to fight for the love of fighting, and not as a refuge from starvation. A few weeks of training licks them into shape. As long as the outbreak of war affords such a stimulus to recruiting as this, there is no need to despair of the British race.”

But as conditions now exist in both countries, England has much more difficulty in filling her ranks in time of peace than is encountered here. Her army is vastly larger than ours, and its attractions are vastly inferior. There is, accordingly, no ground for surprise that both in mental attainments and soundness of body the American recruit is measured by a higher standard; and it is not strange that the British government has such trouble in persuading enough men to enter the ranks that almost any sort of able-bodied man would be accepted. Most of the field musicians of the British regiments are mere boys, twelve to fifteen years of age; these youth are enlisted regularly into the army. The American forces employ grown men for the same service, but the difficulty in obtaining men makes such a force impossible in England.

Once a man has been enlisted, however, in the British army, no pains are spared to make him as good as the best of soldiers—not only in a physical sense, but also in the training of his brains.

1. A musician of the Gordon Highlanders, age, seventeen.

2. A Boer fighting “man,” age, twelve. Twice distinguished for bravery in action. He fought at Spion Kop, Colenso, Dundee, and Ladysmith.

As soon as the British recruit is accepted he is turned over to the drill sergeant, who proceeds to make a soldier of him; and in all the world no better man exists than the British drill sergeant for the special line of duty of whipping recruits into shape. He does nothing else, and consequently becomes very proficient at his calling. These drill masters are all alike; to see one is to see all. He is a species of soldier by himself, and there is nothing like him that I have ever seen. He does for the British army the work that is done by the subaltern officer of the American army. He is by no means gentle, but he is not unnecessarily severe, as is the German or French drill master; he merely understands his men better than any other master, and consequently gets better results from them in a shorter space of time. He takes a slouching youth, of slovenly gait, from Whitechapel, and in an incredibly short time turns him out into Hyde Park a dashing young soldier, or sends him to the Cape in khaki, as willing a fighter as can be found.

I have seen a German drill master strike a recruit for some trifling mistake or inattention; I have heard a Frenchman curse his squad by all the saints in the calendar; but I know of nothing half so effective as the quiet sarcasm that the English or Irish drill sergeant can command when he is completely out of patience with an awkward “rookie”; it is more deadly than oaths or blows; it always accomplishes the end. Up to the present, the British army has been almost built, trained, and run by non-commissioned officers, many of whom are superior to the officers over them in all but birth and breeding. These rankers are capable of commanding in so far as capability depends upon understanding every detail of their profession.

The majority of the English recruits are sent to the great camp at Aldershot, which is a camp only in name; for in reality it is a superb expanse of land, covered with perfectly appointed barracks and well-laid parades. At this training station the work of the young soldier begins in earnest, and for the better part of four months he is drilled, trained, and instructed in all branches of soldiering. The most interesting part of his work is that done in the gymnasium. The average English recruit does not carry himself in the manner of a soldier to the degree that an untrained American does, so that a more rigid training than in the United States is necessary. Moreover, the idea of the proper carriage of a soldier is so vastly different in the two countries that it is difficult to draw a comparison which will be understood by one who is not familiar with both armies. In the British army the old-time conventional idea of soldierly appearance still dominates the discipline; in the American army this idea is not absent, and I hope it may never depart; but nevertheless, the prevailing aim is to subordinate everything to simple effectiveness. Broadly speaking, therefore, one is tempted to say that the British soldier is trained for show, while the American is trained for comfort, for work, and for general usefulness.

The gymnasium at Aldershot is the best-equipped establishment of its kind that I have ever seen; there is nothing lacking that could add to the physical training of the recruits sent there for their preliminary teaching. For one hundred and ten days each recruit has one hour a day devoted exclusively to athletics, and in that time he is made to exercise in walking, running, climbing, boxing, fencing, and is instructed in the use of the bayonet. The men scale high walls and clamber over lofty scaffolding at double time; they go up and down swinging ladders and hanging ropes.

The headquarters gymnasium is just outside of the little town of Aldershot, among the miles of barracks that quarter so many thousands of the British army.

It is a large brick building, recently put up, and contains every appliance known to athletic training, most of the apparatus having been imported from New York. The interior is bright and airy, handsomely decorated with flags, stands of arms, and trophies, making an attractive room in which to work. Just at the left is a smaller building for instruction in the use of the sabre and foil. Surrounding the buildings are large fields for out-of-door exercise, one side being a turf parade for walking, running, jumping, and the many drills in the use of the arms and legs. When the weather permits, the classes in bayonet, single-stick, and dumb-bells are taken to this field. On the other side of the buildings are all sorts of stationary apparatus similar to that inside; on that side also there are walls to scale, heights to climb, besides the ordinary bars and ladders. The best apparatus that the recruits use is a great frame that looks as if some one had started to build a house, and dropped the work as soon as the scaffolding had been finished. It is a square framework about fifty feet high and forty feet wide; from it hang ropes, ladders, poles, sliding-boards, and all kinds of devices by which ascent and descent can be made. The apparatus is of great value in training the eye as well as the muscle, for the recruits are put over it at double time, and the slightest false step would mean a bad fall and broken bones. It was the invention of Colonel the Hon. J. S. Napier, who has been in command at the gymnasium for some time, and to whose efforts are due the perfection of the system of training given, not only to the recruits, but also to all officers and men who care to continue their physical training.

1. Colonel Napier’s frame for recruit-drill at Aldershot.

2. One of the exercises in British recruit-drill.

The most useful drill given to recruits is the use of the “shelf.” This, as the name indicates, is a huge shelf on the side of the gymnasium wall. It is so high that a man cannot reach it as he stands on the floor, and to mount it he must have the assistance of one or more of his companions. The aim of the shelf drill is to train the men to go over walls and obstacles where there is nothing for them to use in pulling themselves up. In working together, one man makes a rest of his hands and gives to his comrade a “boost”; then the man thus assisted clambers up to the shelf, and turning, pulls up the man below him.

The American recruit is handed over to a subaltern officer, who is usually not long from West Point, and is fresh with the athletic enthusiasm and methods of the Academy. He takes the place of the British drill sergeant. He tramps side by side with the awkward recruit, and orders him to do nothing which he himself is not able to do in a perfected manner. This fact of itself establishes a wholesome and trusting relation between the enlisted man and his officer. The man looks up to his superior as to an instructor and parent. He learns to regard him not merely as his fugleman for parades and campaigns, but also as his preceptor, who knows him thoroughly and takes an interest in him. The motto of the American army is that the officer is the father of his men.

The young recruit gains his first comprehension of this as he is worked upon by his young superior in shoulder-straps. No familiarity is permitted; the etiquette is as rigid and unremitting as in any European army; the orders are stiff and stern; and yet the fact remains in the soldier’s mind, through his entire service, that his officer labored patiently over him for months, to impart to him from his own rich store of self-command and high bearing, of physical cleverness and military skill. The man never forgets his place, nor his officer’s either.

The American recruit receives a thorough course in all kinds of athletic drill, riding, fencing, walking, running. Especial attention is given to the “setting-up” exercises; these consist of a series of movements of arms, legs, and body which involve all the motions which are called for in any military action. The turning of the arms, raising and lowering them, propulsive motions, the limbering of the joints—every movement that can contribute to facility of action is a part of this extraordinary discipline.

Setting-up exercises of American soldiers during their visit in Malta.

Recruit drill in the British army.

Beyond this, and of most practical moment, is the American recruit’s training in making temporary trenches with bayonet and tin plate; in seizing and using temporary protections; in shooting from behind trees, rocks, hillocks, while showing as little of his body as possible. The consequence of this drill is that when in battle the American soldier can manage himself without depending on orders, and is an expert fighter.

In South Africa the British regulars could not be asked to make even temporary entrenchments; they had to wait for the engineer corps to come up and lay them out and dig them. But a company of American troops, with only the implements they carry, can scrape up a pile of dirt in front of them in less than five minutes sufficient to serve as their fort in an all-day battle.

The charge by rushes which the British had to learn on the battlefield is the trick which the American recruit is taught before he leaves the awkward squad. In this resourcefulness and practicality the colonial troops in the South African campaign were by many points superior to the British regulars, and showed that they had been trained to some extent by the same methods that have been found so effective for the American recruit.

CHAPTER III.
The Common Soldier in the Field

American cow-boy with Canadians in South Africa.

American cow-boy with Canadians in South Africa.

There is much in common between the life of a tramp and that of a soldier in campaign. If the tramp had ever watched an army on the march it might not be difficult for him to imagine himself surrounded by all the pomp of war. He is dirty, unshaven, his clothes are ragged and torn, and he presents a generally dilapidated and loose-jointed appearance. His line of march is along the railroad; occasionally he gets a ride in a box car, and at night he sleeps beside the track. If he is lucky he gets a meal or so each day; he cooks the meal himself over his own fire, the meat sizzling on the end of a stick, and the coffee boiling in an old can. On and on he marches along the railroad, he does not know where, he does not care—he just goes. Finally he comes to a town and stands around in the switchyard, or at the station, until some one comes along and orders him out. These conditions are those of the life of the average tramp, but they fit that of the soldier as well, the chief point of difference being that the tramp does not have to work and the soldier does.

Fighting is what the soldier longs for and lives for; it does come sometimes, although infrequently; and during the intervening routine of work he almost forgets the fighting. The public at home reads of battles, several of them perhaps occurring within a week; but those actions cover the entire theatre of the war, and consequently one command may rarely see two fights in succession. There is none of the glitter that the romancers depict; the glory begins and ends with the triumphal march through the streets to the transport. Up to the time that the last line that connects with home is cast off, and the great troop-ship turns her prow to the land of the enemy, the soldier feels the true excitement and exhilaration of war; the cheers of the crowd along the line of march still ring in his ears; the brave words of speeding that were spoken by local officials, and the thoughtful attentions of the ladies’ committees at the wharf are all bright memories of the start towards fame and glory on the battlefield. But about the time the jingling bell in the engine-room tells the official at the throttle that the ship is clear of the harbor, and that she may settle down to her long voyage, the soldier begins to realize that war is no romance, but a stern reality that will take him away for a long time from everything and everybody that he cares for, with the possibility that he may never come back at all.

When he thinks of this, he pictures himself staggering back from the crest of some hill that is to be taken, with a rifle-ball in his heart. A few weeks later the cause of his not going home means some slow, consuming fever, or other wasting disease, which gives him plenty of time to repent the day he ever thought of going to war. Or instead of that neat bullet through the heart, a ragged chunk of shell rips off an arm or a leg, or tears its way through his side, dropping him in the mud or dust, to lie until some one finds time to pick him up, and take him in a springless wagon to a crowded field hospital, where a surgeon gives but hasty attention to his needs. There is no “dying for the flag” sentiment; no tender nurse, such as we see on the stage, to take the last message home; instead, it is a helpless sort of death, without any one near who has time to give even a drink of water. There is no resemblance that would come so near my idea of a soldier killed in battle as that of an unclean, sweating, and unshaven unfortunate of a crowded city, struck by a street car, and thrown, bleeding and torn, into the mud. Then, if no one had time to pick him up, and he should lie there for hours, or perhaps days, the picture of a soldier’s death would be complete.

After the first few weeks the whole idea of war becomes a dread, and the one thought is, When shall we go home? After a few months have passed, a helpless, “don’t care” feeling settles over every one, and after that any change is highly welcome, no matter whether it be home, the hospital, or the trench. The tedium of war is more telling upon the volunteer than upon the regular, as the former soon begins to think of his interests at home that are perhaps suffering. The volunteer never thinks that his services will be needed more than two or three months at the most; and when the service drags well on toward a year, it becomes almost unbearable. The regular does not mind it so much, for his apprenticeship of worry has been served with the early months of the first enlistment, and any change from barrack life is an agreeable one.

Dangebhoy hospital cart used in South Africa.

After a soldier has been in the field for a few months there is not much of the military appearance left to him except his gun, and there is not the slightest trace of the smart, well-kept man on home duty. It does not matter about his appearance, however, for the man himself is there, and of all sorts and conditions of men in all creation, the true fighting man is the manliest. He works day after day like a galley slave, endangers his life night and day, and yet he is but the tiniest portion of a great machine, of whom no one has ever heard, and who will be forgotten before the ink is dry on the treaty of peace. For a day he may be carried on the shoulders of a victory-maddened crowd, and compelled to drink rare wine from silver goblets; nothing is then good enough for him—the victor. But let him ask a favor from sovereign or subject, from Congress or people, a year after, and no one remembers him. His days and nights in the field, suffering that the nation’s honor may live, are all forgotten, and the fighting man is pushed to one side to make room for the trade of peace that this same man has made possible.

No honor is too great to render to the men who go out to fight, whether they be regulars or volunteers. The wage they receive would not pay any man at home to undertake half so hazardous a task. Within two years I have had the opportunity of seeing the work of four different armies in the field, fighting for what they thought was right. Among those four—Spaniards, British, Boers, and Americans—can be found a curious variety of methods of warfare, and there is much that has never been told.

The common soldiers of every land are brave; it is but a question of leaders, methods, and numbers that decides which will be victorious; for losing or winning, they show much the same valor. Nothing could be more magnificent, nor reflect more credit on the men of Spain, than the manner in which they met defeat at El Caney, at Santiago, and on the seas in the conflicts with Sampson and Dewey. They went down in defeat in a way that won the admiration of every soldier and sailor in the American army and navy; they were brave, dignified, and courteous at all times, even the rank and file.

The fighting methods of the Boers and the Americans are very similar, and if the Boers were trained in military tactics their military character would be almost identical with that of our troops. They possess the same natural instinct of a hunter to keep under cover that our men have, and their methods during an advance are the same. The British army has just taken its first lesson in this sort of work, and although it has been a costly one, it will pay in the end; and it is England’s great good fortune that she did not have a powerful European foe for a tutor, instead of the two little republics whose entire male population would not make a good-sized army corps.

At the autumn manœuvres of the British army at Aldershot, just before the South African war broke out, I was watching the attack and defense of a hill by several battalions of infantry. Standing with me was an officer of the Twelfth Lancers, and we watched the progress of the action with alert interest. When the attacking force made its advance, I noticed that neither the officers nor the men made any attempt at keeping under the cover of the trees or rocks which were numerous in the zone of fire. Of course the men were using only blank ammunition, but in the same work our men would be compelled to crawl along from tree to tree, or to keep under the shelter of the rocks. I remarked to my companion that I should imagine the officers and men would take greater interest in the work in hand if they went at it as though it were real, and keeping to cover.

“Why, you do not mean to say that American officers and soldiers would hide behind rocks and trees, do you?” he exclaimed in astonishment.

“Of course they would,” I replied. “They would not only get behind rocks and trees, but behind the largest they could find. Don’t you do the same?”

“No, indeed,” he said with emphasis, adding, “What would the men think of an officer who would hide during a fight?” As it was not my first visit in England, I did not continue the argument.

The Twelfth Lancers in South Africa.

General French examining the enemy’s position during the battle of Diamond Hill.

It was, indeed, the general British opinion that to protect oneself in a fight was to hide, and with this idea the men went to war in a country where the enemy could find all the protection that he wanted, and where he knew how to use it; and so these brave soldiers were sent up in solid formation to be shot to bits by an invisible foe. There could be no greater test of the valor of the British soldier than the manner in which he faced death during the first months of the war.

The difference between the British and the American soldier is very marked in the fact that the class feeling in England is so great. All the middle and lower classes of England are taught to touch their hats to birth in what is called a gentleman, and no matter where they meet one, they show him deference. From these middle and lower classes the army, of course, gathers its strength; consequently there is a feeling of obedience even before the real lesson of the soldier begins. This subservience is not always a good thing, for any one who has the appearance of a gentleman has about as much influence or authority with the men as an officer in uniform would have. An incident which illustrates this occurred during the first days of the British occupation of Pretoria. It was found that some of the Boer sympathizers were communicating with their friends on commando during the night, and, to prevent this, an order was issued that no one should pass the sentries posted around the town after sundown or before sunrise, without a pass from the military governor or from the field marshal himself. The order was as imperative as could be made, for the danger at that time was very great, and it was necessary that even the smallest bits of information should be kept from the Boer forces. A party of five Americans were dining at the house of a friend on the opposite side of the line of sentries, and, when the order was issued, it looked as though we would not get back until the next morning. One of the party suggested that we bluff our way past the sentry at the bridge over which we had to pass. The plan was adopted, and we walked boldly up to the sentry post, and were promptly challenged. One of the party stepped forward, and in a tone of authority said, “These gentlemen are Americans, and are with me, sentry, and it will be all right. Just pass them too.”

“You are sure it will be all right, sir?” inquired the sentry.

“Yes, quite sure,” was the answer, and the entire party was passed without any further trouble, and for all the sentry knew they might have gone straight to the Boer camp, which was only a few miles away; but owing to the fact that the party was one apparently of gentlemen, he did not see fit to refuse the permission to pass through the lines, even though the field marshal had given his strictest order to the contrary. This was not a single occurrence; any person could pass through the lines at any time, providing he did not speak English with a Dutch accent. To do that was to arouse immediate suspicion, and at times our own “Yankee twang” was enough to cause the Tommy to ask questions; but a few words of explanation invariably brought a polite apology.

The Englishman makes a natural sailor, but he is not a natural soldier, and it requires a great amount of training to make a good man of him in the field; he may drill well, march well, and look well, but he needs much training and good leadership to fight well. When he has that, there is no better soldier to be found. It is in this respect that the Americans, as well as the Boers, excel the English as soldiers. They have been taught to hunt wild game in the wilderness of the great plains and deep forests; they have been taught to shoot and to ride in their childhood. The reason is obvious—they are a people of a new country; both Americans and Boers have but recently fought back the way for civilization, and, in fact, are still doing the same thing. New York has forgotten the stress, Chicago is fast forgetting it; but the great West has not forgotten it at all, and everywhere in America the spirit of adaptability to rough conditions still pervades our life. Each year every man, woman, and child who can get there seeks the mountains or the woods for a few days or weeks, to satisfy the natural American longing for the wild out-of-doors life that our forefathers knew. But in England there is no open shooting as we know it, there is no camping as we know it. It is true that the great estates have excellent shooting, so far as their idea of hunting goes; but to our point of view it is a senseless slaughter. Tame deer are driven up to the guns to be shot, or domesticated wild birds are flushed by beaters toward the hidden shooting party. The size of the day’s bag depends merely on the supply of ammunition or the endurance of the trigger finger.

Heliographing from Diamond Hill to Lord Roberts in Pretoria.

All this has to do with war only as it suggests one reason why the British soldier has met his master in the art of war in South Africa. The training that makes a fighting man, if not a soldier, is hunting where the snapping of a twig or the approach on the wrong wind means the loss of the prey. Guns and gunning are for the rich alone in England, and the class that makes up the rank and file of the army never have a firearm in their hands until they enlist. It cannot be expected, therefore, that they can become sufficiently proficient in its use to cope successfully in equal numbers with men who have handled rifles since childhood. Not even the London police carry firearms of any sort. The soldier is taught to load and shoot, and learns his marksmanship at the target ranges; but he might as well be taught pigeon-shooting in a street gallery with a .22 calibre rifle. Target practice and firing in action are different games, and the latter can be learned only by actual practice if the instinct is not present.

When the British forces were landing at Beira, in Portuguese East Africa, to make their march into Rhodesia, there was a company of volunteers belonging to “Carrington’s Horse,” already entrained and ready to start for the front. In conversation with one of the men I found that they were from Edinburgh, and that the name of their company was the “Edinburgh Sharpshooters.” Merely from curiosity I asked what qualifications were required to join their organization of sharpshooters, and whether they had to make any particular score.

“Oh, no,” he said, “none of us have ever shot a gun at all yet, but as soon as we get up here we are going to learn.” When they left home they wanted a name, and they liked that of “sharpshooter,” so they took it. That is the way in which many of the British soldiers are made; they receive a uniform, a gun, and a farewell address, and then it is thought that they are ready to meet any foe. In some cases our own volunteers have been as unqualified as were these young Scotchmen, and we have suffered for it; but our men have in general a better fundamental training than those of most other nations. One mark of the difference between Englishmen and Americans (and also Canadians) is to be seen in the toy-shop windows. The American boy’s first plaything, after he tires of tin soldiers, is a toy pistol with paper caps. The boy then begins to “play Indian,” and to shoot and scalp his little sisters. In a few years, if he is favored by fortune, he will have a little rifle, and then the Winchester will follow. That boyish training helped to make the Canadian and Australian volunteers superior to the English troops, and it is also in boyhood that the Boer farmer learned to be the great fighter that he is. That same mimic use of deadly arms in childhood, and the constant use of guns against game in youth, has made the North American Indian not only the most formidable fighter in the world, but also the world’s tutor in modern warfare.

Switzerland has adopted the idea of the advantage of training in the use of firearms, and every man is furnished with a rifle by the government, and also with a certain amount of ammunition each year. The people of that little republic could retire into the fastnesses of her mountains and withstand the armies of Europe for months. If Austria, for instance, should again attempt to invade the cantons, the Swiss would show the world that they can do the same that the Boers have done, and at least sell their land and liberty at a tremendous cost of human life.

If the British common soldier is properly led, and if he has full confidence in his leaders, he will go anywhere; but he must be led, for he has no initiative and does not think for himself in the field any more than he does at home. What would an American soldier think of a special privilege created in a regiment because there came a time when all the officers were killed or wounded, and the non-commissioned officers took the regiment through the fight? There is an English regiment in which the non-commissioned officers all wear their sashes over the same shoulder as do the commissioned officers, because in a long-ago battle they led the regiment when their superiors were put out of action. In the American army this would have been done by the non-commissioned officers as a matter of course, or by privates if the sergeants and corporals were disabled; and in the terrible slaughters of the Civil War more than once this happened, demonstrating the resourcefulness of the American soldier. While talking with British prisoners taken by the Boers, I asked them why they surrendered so soon, when they had ammunition left and when so few had been hit. Some of them said that it was much better to be a prisoner than it was to be dead, and seemed to take it more as a joke on the rest of the army that still had to fight while they were now in safety. Some of them blamed their officers. But not one seemed to feel that it was at all incumbent upon the privates to fight it out alone or to take the lead when there was no officer near. In all the months of imprisonment in Pretoria and in the vicinity, the soldiers did not make any attempt to escape, although there were enough of them to have taken Pretoria empty-handed. There were several thousand British soldiers in one field enclosed in wire, yet they made no effort to regain their liberty. The reason undoubtedly was that they had no leaders with them. In such an attempt some of them, of course, would have been killed, and possibly a great many of them; but there is no doubt that with the proper spirit an escape could have been made.

The care of the dead is a problem to which the British government has not given much attention. Certainly there is nothing in the field that would indicate that it had been seriously considered. But in this act of grace the American War Department maintains a system which is in the highest degree praiseworthy and which commands the deference of the world.

It is purely a matter of sentiment that prompts any particular disposition of the bodies of those who fall in a fight, or who succumb to the ravages of fever; but to the fighting man in the field it is a tender sentiment that means much. The body of every American soldier who falls on a foreign shore is sooner or later brought home and buried, with all the honors of war. If his family or friends want his body for private burial, they are aided in securing it; but if it is not so claimed, it is then taken to one of the great national cemeteries and laid away with proper ceremonies. If one were to ask a soldier in good health whether he wanted to be taken home to be buried, he would probably reply that it did not matter at all what was done with his body after he got through with it. But if the time came when death seemed near, that same man would find sensible satisfaction in thinking that some day his own family would stand beside the box that served as the narrow cell of his last sleep. I have seen many a man die soothed by the feeling that he would eventually be taken home. In a severe campaign in a distant or foreign land, the idea of home finds a meaning to matter-of-fact and apparently unimaginative soldiers which they cannot express, but which stirs infinite pathos. When a soldier lies weak from a burning fever, but with all his mental faculties more than ever alert, or when he is on solitary outpost duty against an active enemy, with time to turn the situation over in his mind, it is then that he thinks of home as at no other time, and it is then that he will appreciate all that he knows will be done for him should he happen to be found by death.

Whenever an American soldier falls in action or dies of disease, he receives as good a burial as the circumstances permit, and his grave is distinctly marked, so that there will be no possibility of its not being found when the time for removal comes. It may be months before the day arrives, but it is sure to come at last, and then the bodies are taken up and put in leaden-lined coffins and transported home.

Burial at Arlington of 426 American soldiers who fell in Cuba.

The year after the Cuban campaign I attended the burial of four hundred and twenty-six officers and men at Arlington, the great national cemetery on the beautiful, sloping banks of the Potomac River, opposite Washington. The President, the members of the cabinet, the commanding general of the army, and other high officials of state were there to pay their respect to the noble dead as they were laid to rest in the company of the thousands of others who gave their lives for their country in the Civil War. The long lines of coffins, each one draped with a flag, resting beside the open graves, ready to be lowered, told a heavy story of the breakage of war. Two chaplains, one Protestant and the other Roman Catholic, read the service for the burial of the dead, while a soldier stood at each grave and sprinkled the symbolic handful of earth upon the coffin. At the end of the ceremony the artillery boomed the last salute, and the trumpeters sounded the slow, mournful notes of “taps.” The imposing funeral cost the government a great amount of money. But each year the soldier dead are gathered home; the dead of every war our country has waged have been brought together, a silent army of heroic men. These graves will be cared for and the names will be preserved so long as the nation lasts.

In South Africa the English forces buried their dead with the honors of war whenever it was possible, but not with the intention of taking the bodies home at any future date; and in hundreds of cases the graves were not even marked. There was not that deserved attention paid to the dead which seemed often feasible, and which in some cases I felt that Americans would have made feasible. In one instance in Natal a Boer general sent a flag of truce to the British general, whose forces had just met with a severe defeat, and told him that a truce would be allowed in which to bury the dead, and that if the British general would send out a burial party it would be given safe conduct and every assistance in the work. The answer went back to the Boer commander, “Bury them yourself and send us the bill.” The Boers did bury them, and read a Christian service over them, but they did not send in a bill.

Gathering the dead after the battle of Diamond Hill.

When rightly led, there is no braver soldier on earth than the “gentleman in khaki” who goes out to do his Sovereign’s bidding in every part of the world. He is the finest specimen of the sturdy soldier known in Europe. He is not unlike the American soldier, except in the standard of education and self-reliance. He is the same happy, careless, and kind-hearted man, who will fight an enemy all day, and, when he has been defeated, feed him out of his own scanty store of rations. The British soldier does not often become intoxicated; but when he does chance to take too much, he is apt to be affected with a bit more of dignity, or with an exaggerated straightness; he is rarely quarrelsome.

The British soldier in the field is by far more attentive to his personal and military appearance than is the American soldier when on a hard campaign. All the men in South Africa wore their heavy cross-belts and pouches when, had they been our men, it is quite likely they would have been lost, for they were of no great importance to the comfort of the soldier. The Britisher keeps well shaven at all times in the field, and, although he is burned as only an African sun can burn, he looks well groomed. It does not seem to be compulsory to shave, as some of the men are whiskered, but the large majority of the men keep their faces free from a beard. Naturally, however, their uniforms get very dirty, especially as they do not have any shelter tents to protect them from the rain, and frequently the regiments on the march look as though they were uniformed in black or a dark brown.

One thing in which the British soldiers are far behind the American is in ordinary entrenching work in the field; they do not seem to understand the first principles of construction of trenches, either temporary or permanent. The sappers or engineers are, of course, proficient in the work, but the ordinary infantrymen or cavalrymen do not go at the work with the same intelligence that the Americans display. This is not because they lack the intelligence, but because they have never been trained for that obviously necessary work, always having been taught to rely upon the engineer corps. Nearly all the men carry an entrenching tool, but they have not had the necessary practice and instruction in its use to make it a useful implement in their hands. The American soldiers can do more and better work in protecting themselves in a temporary trench with the top of a mess tin than the British soldiers can do with their special tools. This is not the fault of the British soldiers, but that of the officers who have neglected to train them in this most important self-protection in the field. Dr. Conan Doyle calls the infantry especially to account for their ignorance in digging trenches in the South African war, and says that the work they did were mere rabbit-scratchings in comparison with the work of the amateur soldiers opposed to them.

To compare the relative bravery of the American soldier and Tommy Atkins is very difficult; there is a difference, but it is undoubtedly due to the training and not to the actual courage of the men. There could be no better or braver soldier desired than the British when he knows what to do and when he is properly led; but the trouble is that he has not been taught to think for himself, and the majority of his officers do not take the trouble to think for him. The consequence has been that the Boers took more prisoners than they could feed. There are instances, shamefully numerous, where a greatly superior force has surrendered to the Boers after very slight resistance. Howard C. Hillegas gives a number of cases, in his book on the Boer war, where from three to sixty men have been captured by one or two Boers, without firing a shot in defense. It is true that they were surprised in a mountainous or rocky place, where they could not tell how many of the enemy were opposed to them, but even this would not excuse a bloodless surrender. I know of one case where over seven hundred regular soldiers surrendered to a few more than a hundred burghers, after a loss of eight killed and twenty-three wounded, and with their belts half full of ammunition. They were not in the open, but were well covered, and in as good a position as were the Boers. General Methuen’s despatch to the War Office after one of his first engagements, in which he described it as “the bloodiest battle of the century,” after he had sustained a ridiculously small loss, shows that to the British mind losses are more disturbing than to the American.

The Fifth Army Corps never would have reached Santiago, and never would have driven out the Spanish fleet, had they ever allowed themselves to be checked as the British did in South Africa before Lord Roberts came. At Guasimas the dismounted cavalry, under General Young and Colonel Roosevelt, attacked more than four times their number of Spaniards, who were carefully entrenched in perfectly constructed works, in a mountainous pass that was thick with a tropical undergrowth. The enemy’s fire was well directed and very heavy, and at one time the cavalry attacking were fought almost to a standstill; in order to save themselves they charged the works, with a loss of sixteen killed and thirty-two wounded. At El Caney and San Juan the fighting quality of soldiers was shown on both sides; and it was on those fields that the American gained his first deep respect for the Spaniard as a fighting man. All day long General Lawton’s division fought every inch of the ground toward the little suburb of El Caney under the stone fort, and General Kent’s division advanced steadily, until there came the final rush up San Juan hill. At the latter place the Spaniards waited and fought until the bayonet drove them out, and at the former they stayed and gallantly died. Very few prisoners were taken at El Caney, and almost every one of these was badly wounded. The scene inside the stone fort was beyond description. Captain Capron’s battery had hit it forty-eight times during the day, and the little force inside was literally shot to pieces; the walls and roof had fallen in, and the floor was strewn with the wreck, covering the bodies of the dead and wounded. Blood was spattered over the walls that were still standing, and the terrible tropical sun had caused a sickening odor. There was not a man in the fort that was not hit, and only two or three were still alive. Even after this fort was taken, which was late in the afternoon, and we were busy burying the enemy’s dead and caring for the wounded, the Spaniards were still fighting at the thatched fort on the other side of the town. The thought of surrendering never seemed to enter their minds.

I was reminded of their bravery at Santiago by Cronje’s noble stand at Paardeburg, where he withstood the combined attack of forty thousand British soldiers with many guns for twelve days. Although he was in a defenseless position, and although the number of men and animals killed caused a frightful condition within his lines, still he held out until his ammunition was entirely expended. Both the Spaniards and the Boers went to the opposite extreme from the British in the matter of surrendering, for there is no doubt that in many instances the latter gave up far too easily. So many of them surrendered during the latter part of the war, that the Boers were compelled, after they had disarmed them, to set them free, as they had no accommodations or means of caring for the thousands captured.

There is a significant contrast in the action of the British and American governments regarding men who are lost by capture. It is the policy of the British government to make no effort to rescue them; all the prisoners are made to pay allowances, and promotion ceases from the date of their capture. On the contrary, whenever any handful of American soldiers have been captured in the Philippines, no possible efforts have been spared to release them; in the case of the capture of Lieutenant-Commander Gilmore and his men, a force of cavalry followed them for several hundred miles, until finally, when they overtook them, the rescuing party were in almost as miserable a condition as were the prisoners themselves. The circumstances in the Philippines and South Africa are quite dissimilar, however, and it was possibly good strategy on the part of Lord Roberts to allow the prisoners to remain in the hands of the Boers, as the responsibility for them was necessarily a serious embarrassment for a small force; and on this account he would not exchange any prisoners.

It is astonishing that the death rate from disease among the men in the British army while in the field is not greater, for, not having a shelter tent of any description, the men are compelled to sleep in the open unless they happen to be able to provide a temporary shelter for themselves. I have frequently seen a rain storm of several days’ duration, where the men were wet day and night and had no opportunity whatever of drying their clothes. The English army uses regular tents as much as we do in our service, but in the actual field work, where the company tents must be left at the base of supplies, they are shelterless.

Not only are the British lacking in the giving of shelter and comfort to the men while in the field, but all the other European armies are also very backward in this respect—none of them using the shelter tent as it is used by United States forces. This is a simple and light portion of an equipment, which produces more comfort for the men than anything else they could possibly carry, for it is used in other ways than as a shelter. In light marching order it is wrapped around the blanket, forming the blanket-roll, the sticks and pegs being wrapped inside; two men, each carrying a half, sharing the tent.

In the out-of-door life of campaign, our men again have the advantage of the training which is bound to come from a new country where sleeping in the open is not unusual. In the German army the men are billeted upon the various towns or cities near which they happen to make their night’s halt. The German War Department has statistics showing the capacity of every house in the empire, and wherever a body of troops is moved, information is given to the officers regarding the accommodations to be found. Consequently, when a command marches into a village or town, they are told off into squads and sent to their respective quarters as easily as though they were in their own barracks.

During the autumn manœuvres of the German army in 1899, after watching the operations for the day, I was sitting in a hotel, talking with some of the staff officers, when one of them said in a most mysterious manner, “Ah, but you must wait until Thursday night!”

“What is to happen Thursday night?” I inquired.

“Wait,” he said; “wait until then. It will be wonderful.” And his brother officers shared his mild excitement over the events promised for this particular night. I had visions of all sorts of exciting things—of night attacks, forced marches, or anything up to a real declaration of war.

“But what is it?” I asked, growing intensely interested.

“Why,” he said, “the army is going to bivouac all night—in the open air—on the ground;” and then he settled back to watch the effect of his startling statement.

So unused to camping were they that the event was looked forward to as children might look forward to Christmas morning. It was the event of the campaign, and the effect of putting these soldiers into the field where there were no houses to be used for shelter would be a problem.

The custom of the foreign governments of giving medals to their soldiers for a campaign is an exceedingly good one, and might well be copied to a degree in the United States. There is a certain aversion in this country for the use of national medals, and yet there are quite as many in the form of military orders, society orders, and decorations issued by the various States, as are used in any European country. But these all lack that distinguished origin and endorsement which makes a man proud to wear them. The British government is far in advance in the system it has adopted for military decorations. A war medal is struck after every campaign, and given to every man who has shared in it, the soldiers receiving a silver medal, and the camp-followers, drivers, etc., a bronze one. They are worn with full dress, and the ribbons are worn with fatigue dress or in the field. The higher orders are the Victoria Cross, which corresponds to our Medal of Honor, and the “distinguished service” order, given for the same kind of deeds for which the men of our army would be mentioned in the order of that name, issued each year by the Secretary of War.

It would be a very simple thing for our government to issue a war medal after every campaign, to be given to every man who had served in it. It is a trinket of no intrinsic value, but the men who have the right to wear it have gained it through hard-fought battles and privations without number; they prize these trophies superlatively, and their families treasure them after they are dead. Our government now issues several medals, and so the campaign medal would be no departure from our custom. It is always a pleasure to see the respect paid to some old pensioner who carries an empty sleeve, as he enters a room or climbs into a ’bus in London, with the medal of the Crimea hanging to his coat.

The fighting man in the field commands respect, no matter from what nation he may come, nor for what cause he is fighting. He is one atom of a great body that acts under the head and brain of one man, and to a certain extent he reflects the personality of his commander. But he is directly dependent upon the officers over him, and it rests largely with them whether he is to be considered a capable man or not. The British soldier has been taught to rely absolutely upon the judgment of his officers; and if he has been found wanting, the blame rests with them and not with him. No better war material could be desired than the khaki man fighting in South Africa, unless it be the man in the blue shirt fighting in the Philippines.

This latter man represents the extreme of self-reliance in the field; to that he has been trained by his officers; for that his original intelligence and his Yankee inventiveness have peculiarly fitted him. With that self-reliance goes an American objection to being dispirited under failure. When he is down he does not stop regarding himself as “game”; under awful odds he cannot see sense in surrender, and if he does become a prisoner he schemes and frets and digs and plots to escape. He is probably the best fighting soldier in the world.

CHAPTER IV.
The Officers

American volunteer officer.

American volunteer officer.

To strike a comparison between the British and the American officer, we do not need to go further into their military career than their first schooling at the government institutions. The fact that the English cadet receives eighteen months’ training, ending with an indifferent examination, while the West Pointer is given four years of the most difficult work, both mental and physical, known to the military world, indicates the whole story.

Yet, up to the time of the breaking out of the war in South Africa, the British officers were generally considered to be at the head of their profession. The colonies were taught to look up to them in everything that pertained to the service; the European and American War Departments considered them models to be studied. But six months’ campaigning against a practical and astute foe proved many of them as clumsy of mind and as inefficient as the officers of King George III. who surrendered to Gates and Washington. The modern British officer has received the pin-prick of active duty against modern fighters; his inflation has vanished.

The exposure was sure to come in his first meeting with a clever enemy. It cannot be expected that a man can become proficient in the art of war after eighteen months’ superficial training, or after a year’s service in the militia. In times of peace he leaves all the duty pertaining to his regiment to his competent non-commissioned staff, and his sole duty has seemed to be to attend social functions, play polo, cricket, or ride steeple-chases. The sergeant-majors knew the work and did it; they attended to the tasks that should have been done by the subaltern officers; and they performed that work so well that the regimental business proceeded in a neat and harmonious manner, for which the officers took the credit. Now comes the time when aptness in society, polo, and cricket does not cut any figure in the problem to be solved. Actual war with a keen-witted enemy stares the gorgeous officers in the face, and they suffer from their own ignorance simply because, with all their personal courage—and there are no braver in the world than some of them—they have not learned their most obvious business.

In days gone by a couple of thousand pounds would purchase a commission in almost any of the Royal regiments; but that practice has been abolished for one that is equally pernicious in its effects. Now, while a man cannot actually purchase a commission in the British army, almost any young man of position who has sufficient income to sustain his social rank can obtain the Royal warrant for the asking. No British officer can support himself on the pay allowed, and he is not expected to do so; it is largely a matter of income whether or no a man receives his commission. An English officer is paid about half as much as an American officer, and his expenses are many times greater. He must support his clubs, and the stables for his polo, driving, and riding stock; even the regimental band must be maintained by a subscription from the officers, which of itself would nearly exhaust his pay, since the British army does not include any but field music in its enlistment. This fact alone would make promotion from the ranks practically impossible, although it is permitted by the army regulations; but the officer’s tale of necessary expenses and subscriptions requires such a large private income that it is absurd for the men in the ranks to dream of rising higher than the non-commissioned staff.

1. A Cadet Drill at the West Point Military Academy.
2. Generals Chaffee, Brooke, and Lee reviewing the army in Cuba.

There is no finer man living than the British officer at home; his politeness rivals that of the Latin races, and his hospitality could not be excelled by a Virginian. He entertains in the most lavish manner, and in time of peace he is an ideal soldier, and merits the idolatry society gives him. His garrison duties do not require his attention to the exclusion of any of his pleasures; consequently he has time to devote to his guests, and he entertains them in a superb manner. The regimental messes are the most splendid social institutions of England, and the guest-night of a cavalry or Household regiment is scarcely outdone in brilliancy at the royal court itself.

1. Maj. Eastwood, 12th Lancers. 2. Col. Beech, Egyptian Cavalry. 3. Sir John Milbanke, V. C. 4. Col. Chamberlain, Military Secretary. 5. A Canadian officer.

It was expected, however, that officers who devoted so much time to the honor and appearance of their regiments would at least be proficient in military science; but, when the supreme test arrived, they were found lacking, and what the observer in England took for indifference to the work was in reality ignorance. No one was half so surprised, however, at the ignorance of the British officer as the British officer himself. He was not able to realize that he did not understand his profession; and to this day hundreds of officers do not realize their ignorance, because so many have not yet had the fortune to be brought face to face with a campaign crisis sufficiently grave to show them their own weakness.

It has been a popular idea that the effect of the South African war will be to bind the colonies closer to the mother country. But the ignorance that has been displayed by some of the leaders of the imperial forces is bound to have its effect sooner or later upon the colonial dependencies, which heretofore have looked upon the English officer as a military idol.

For some days after Pretoria was taken, I was much in the company of officers of the Canadian contingent, and their views of the South African situation were refreshingly straightforward and enlightening. I talked with a Toronto captain who wore the ribbon of the Northwest Rebellion, and who had served with Roosevelt in Cuba merely for the fun of fighting, and I asked him what he thought of the whole show. He was a man whose judgment was sound, a man of the kind that we know as the sound business man of this continent—a character with prestige almost unknown in England.

British Colonel of Volunteers.

“Well,” he said, “it isn’t the way we would do it, is it? We colonials have been taught that nothing we could do could possibly be just right; nothing we could say could just suit the point; and we are brought over here and dumped into a country under a lot of officers who don’t know as much as a child at home would know about the same game.”

Colonel Peabody, U. S. Volunteers.

Throughout the colonial regiments that sentiment was manifest, for both the Australian and Canadian forces were volunteers of the same type that constitutes the United States volunteer army in time of war. Business men, professional men, and society men—all sorts and conditions—volunteered from purely patriotic feeling; they each went from a new country, where every man is to some degree an adventurer. The same spirit that had sent men to the colonies now sent men to the war. They are men with intelligence and courage enough to better their personal surroundings, and consequently are capable of approaching a situation with daring and executing it with success. While the colonials were in the field in South Africa, I think their opinions of the imperial officer took the shape of amusement rather than contempt; but when they have returned to their homes their derision is bound to become scorn; for that great respect which they have been taught to feel is broken, and they have suddenly awakened to the fact that they of the New World have outstripped the mother country in practicality.

The imperial officer did not hesitate to show his contempt for the colonial officer; not because he lacked intellect or bravery, or anything that a soldier should have, but because his social position was not equal to the English idea. It was the old-time prejudice against “the man in trade;” for the British society man cannot understand the spirit and life of a new country, where every man, rich or poor, of high or low birth, is what they call “in trade.” The colonial officers felt this treatment keenly, for they soon perceived their own military superiority; although they did not make manifest their sensitiveness, they resented the lofty manner of the imperial officers.

There was a most unexpected disclosure of character in the conduct of many of the British officers who were taken as prisoners of war by the Boers. A great deal has been said on this subject, and although the story has been told many times by those who witnessed the exhibitions, it is flatly denied by nearly all Englishmen, especially by those who stayed at home.

During the first months of the war the British officers who had been captured were quartered in the Staats Model Schoolhouse, in the heart of Pretoria. It is a handsome one-story brick building, built according to the most approved plan of what a modern school should be. At the rear is a spacious yard, which served as a place in which the officers might exercise. It was through this yard and over the side fence that the war correspondent, Winston Spencer Churchill, succeeded in making his escape. Some of the officers who had been in the prison at the same time were very bitter against Mr. Churchill, as they say he anticipated a plot planned by many of the prisoners by which a large number could escape. As he escaped sooner than the time agreed upon, it prevented the others from making the attempt.

The Boer authorities were obliged to remove the officers from the Model Schoolhouse to the open country, on account of the unbecoming conduct that some of them displayed towards the ladies of Pretoria who lived in the vicinity or who happened to be passing along the streets. It is the extraordinary fact that some of the British officers made offensive remarks to these ladies, and altogether acted in a disgraceful manner. They defaced the walls of the building shamefully, cutting it and drawing all sorts of pictures upon it. An exception to this vandalism was the exceedingly clever topographical work of one of the officers in drawing a huge map of the South African Republic and its surroundings. It was, in fact, so cleverly done that, as the artist had not time to finish it previous to the removal of the prisoners to their new quarters, the Boer officials requested that he continue the work, and allowed him to return each day until it was completed. When the building was renovated and the interior defacings removed, this map was allowed to remain, and it will be preserved.

There is absolutely no doubt of this disgraceful conduct of some of the officers at the Model Schoolhouse, and there is no doubt that this conduct was the cause of their removal to the outskirts of the town. It is persistently denied, but it remains a fact, nevertheless, for instance after instance in proof of it was narrated to me by the Boers. Indeed, I myself had one remarkable occasion to witness the discreditable conduct of certain of the officers.

On my way to South Africa I had occasion to stop at Cairo for about two weeks, waiting for an East Coast steamer; and while at Shepherd’s I was told that the commander of one of the Egyptian regiments, a Colonel Kelly, had a son who was a prisoner in Pretoria, from whom he had not heard for many months. He had been captured early in the war, and all attempts to communicate with him had proved fruitless. Colonel Kelly expressed the desire to meet me, as I was going directly to the Transvaal capital. Consequently I had the honor of a call from him. He is a magnificent type of the Irish soldier, a man who has fought in every zone and in every quarter of the British Empire; one of those men who has cut the pathway of civilization and progress for the statesman to follow. Colonel Kelly requested me to take a letter to his son and endeavor to deliver it to him by obtaining permission from the Transvaal authorities. I took the letter, and the second day after I reached Pretoria I asked Secretary of State Reitz what course to pursue so as to obtain permission to deliver the letter. Although all the officials were extremely considerate and glad to assist me in what I desired to obtain, it took me several days to get the passes required in order to see Lieutenant Kelly. Finally, having obtained the necessary signatures to several papers giving permission to deliver the letter, I drove out to the officers’ prison, which was about a mile from Pretoria, on the first slope of the foothills.

1. Staats Model Schoolhouse, Pretoria, where the British officers were first confined as prisoners of war.

2. Barbed-wire prison, Pretoria, where the British officers were confined after their removal from the city.

The prison consisted of a long, corrugated-iron building, enclosed in a barbed-wire barricade, the ground around the building covering several acres, sufficiently large for the officers to play cricket, football, or tennis. The barbed-wire entanglement was about six feet high and fifteen feet broad, and was constructed as though three parallel fences were interlaced with innumerable strands of loose wire. There was never a very heavy guard at the prison, as the impenetrable character of the enclosure made it unnecessary that there should be more than a small body of men on watch. A line of electric-light poles followed the run of the barricade all around the enclosure, and the lights were kept burning throughout the entire night, making the surrounding area as bright as day, to prevent escape under cover of darkness. Such a construction would not have long restrained the type of officers who were prisoners of war in Libby or Andersonville. The officers were fed better than was to have been expected under the circumstances, since for several months the food supply from the outer world had been cut off from the Transvaal. They were, indeed, receiving every day better rations than the officers of the Transvaal army themselves obtained. Their quarters were comfortable, each officer having an iron cot in the large room, with an ample supply of blankets and linen.

After obtaining permission to deliver the letter to Lieutenant Kelly, I drove out to the prison. I had not been within speaking distance of the enclosure three minutes when some of the officers began loud insults. They did not wait to ascertain why I was there; to them I was merely a “Yank,” coming there out of idle curiosity. A group gathered around the entrance of the barricade and called out insultingly to me and to the Boer officials who were with me, all of whom speak English with but a slight trace of accent, if any at all. Some of the Englishmen even went to the extreme of tossing sticks and stones at our party. I made some comment on this behavior to the commandant in charge at the prison, and he replied:

“Oh, do not mind them; they always do this sort of thing when any one comes out.”

Their derisive remarks were particularly pointed towards Captain von Losburg, a German-American who fought gallantly with the Boers, commanding a battery of field artillery. Many of them knew him by name, and among the English officers were a large number who had personally surrendered to him, and whose lives he had literally spared when they begged him to cease firing in battle; and yet they shouted insults to him beyond the limit of endurance. Although his arm had been shattered by a shell and he wore it in a sling, he told these officers that he would gladly attempt to thrash any one of them for their language. He had not brought it upon himself, for he had not said a word before they began to vituperate him; in fact, the same thing had happened before, so he came forewarned and endeavored not to heed their remarks. I was thoroughly amazed, and could not believe that these shameless men held the Queen’s commission; for in my estimation there is nothing more unutterably mean than for a prisoner of war to insult the man from whom he has begged his life. If it had been only myself upon whom they had poured their torrent of abuse it would not have been so strange, for to them I was an American who had cast my lot with their enemy; and they did not know, for they did not stop to inquire, whether I was fighting or not. It was almost beneath scorn, however, for them to abuse the man who had so recently befriended them.

When I entered the prison enclosure to meet Lieutenant Kelly, I was compelled to pass directly through a large crowd of officers who had gathered about the gate; as I did so I brushed elbows with a number of them, but their offensive remarks continued until I had passed into the building and out of earshot. The commandant who was conducting me asked some of the officers who were standing about for Lieutenant Kelly, saying that there was a letter awaiting him. A moment later an officer ran up to me and said, in a manner full of excitement and anticipation, “I hear you have a letter for Kelly. For God’s sake give it to me, for I haven’t had a line from home since I’ve been in this place.” I was about to deliver the letter to him when the commandant stopped him, saying gently, “I am sorry, Captain, but this is for Lieutenant Kelly.”

Never was keener disappointment pictured on a man’s face, and he staggered as though he had been struck; but after an instant, making an effort to recover himself, he half extended his hands with a gesture denoting resignation, shrugged his shoulders, and simply said, “Oh, I’m sorry!” and turned away.

1. Released British officers in Pretoria after the entry of Lord Roberts.

2. Native East Indian servants of British officers in South Africa.

A few moments later I delivered the letter to Colonel Kelly’s son, who was that day probably the happiest man in the prison. He courteously invited me to remain for a time and meet some of his brother officers; but after having witnessed the exhibition near the entrance I felt that I wanted to get away from the place as soon as possible.

Not many days after, the boom of the British guns resounded in the valley; shells shrieked over the prison and fell into the little city; and on a day early in June a horde of khaki poured over every mountain side, from every hill-top, and flowed through the valley from every direction. Pretoria was in the hands of the British, and these prisoners were released after many weary months of captivity. There was a wild scene of rejoicing about the prison, and the captives embraced their rescuers, fairly dancing for joy at the regaining of their liberty. That afternoon, in the public square, when Lord Roberts raised the Union Jack over the State House, five of the English officers came up to me and apologized for the conduct of their companions in captivity on the occasion of my visit to their prison.

“It was a shabby thing for them to do,” said one of them, “but then you know there are bound to be cads in every lot.” I could not help thinking, however, that there was a singularly large number of cads in this particular lot, and also of the many tales that I had heard from the Boers of similar conduct on the part of other English officers when they were first captured.

My friend, Mr. Richard Harding Davis, went to South Africa in complete sympathy with the British cause, and joined General Buller’s army, seeing much of the hardest campaigning on the Natal side. He was fully convinced as to the rights of the English cause, and equally firm in his opinion that the Boers were all they had been depicted by the press of Great Britain. A little later he had occasion to withdraw from the British forces and transfer his observations to the opposite side. He did so with the full consent of the British authorities, and without unfriendly disagreement. He had not been with the Afrikanders very long before he was persuaded of their cause, seeing how grossly they had been misrepresented by men who wrote without knowledge of the true state of affairs, or who wrote in revenge after having been crossed in some manner by the Transvaal authorities. Mr. Davis saw that the men of these two South African Republics were not the dirty, ignorant, bewhiskered settlers that had been pictured, but that they were clubmen, professional men, and business men of every description and many nationalities, as well as the typical farmers of the veldt known to illustrated papers, and they were all fighting in a just cause and defending their rights against territorial aggression. This was also, I am safe in saying, the impression of all the correspondents who had the opportunity of observing the war from the Boer side, no matter how warm had been their early prejudice in favor of Great Britain.

Mr. Davis went to the war as heartily prejudiced in favor of the British officers as of the cause of England; but because he has had sufficient strength of character and love of fair play to change his sentiments and the tenor of his writing completely, he has been malignantly attacked for making the same statement that I have just made regarding the personal conduct of the British officers. Nevertheless, this statement is a fact that remains absolutely true. It seems incredible that such demeanor could have been manifested, and I am free to confess that had I not been a witness I would not have believed it.

Lieutenant-General N. A. Miles, U. S. A.

I could not but think of the contrast shown between these captured Englishmen and the Spanish officers who surrendered during the fighting in the war with Spain. They were compelled by the fortunes of war to put themselves in the keeping of the officers of a different nation, a different race; men whom they had been taught to despise and for whom they really had a bitter hatred. Yet they could not have been more courteous had they been guests instead of prisoners. Admiral Cervera and the officers of his fleet were for a time quartered at Annapolis, and later in one of the New England sea-coast towns, where they enjoyed many privileges of recreation and liberty. They met our American women each day during their term of captivity, and their conduct showed most conclusively their gentle breeding. When they came in direct meeting with any of the ladies, they raised their caps with grave respect; in many cases they were formally presented, and they invariably proved themselves the gentlemen of refinement that officers are supposed to be. When they met any of our officers, they never failed to give the military salute, showing the respect in which they held their captors, notwithstanding the bitterness in their hearts. Their demeanor, which won the admiration of all our people, was in marked contrast to that of some of the British officers towards their captors.

At the beginning of the South African War I was not without a wish that our government might have arrived at an open understanding with the British Ministry. After their gracious attitude towards us in the latter part of the Spanish-American War, it looked as though Englishmen might be sincere in their friendship. One of the titled staff officers following Lord Roberts was, to put it very mildly, exceedingly discourteous to one of the American correspondents whose papers were of considerable influence upon public sentiment. In discussing the incident with one of General French’s highest staff officers, I asked if it would not have been better had this officer been a trifle more diplomatic and, by a little courtesy, made a friend rather than an enemy of a man whose writings reached so many American readers. This officer’s answer struck the keynote of the British sentiment when he replied:

“We do not care a tuppenny damn what any American on earth thinks of us!”

Within fifteen minutes that same officer asked whether America would not stand by England in the event of a European war.

There is no doubt that the English-speaking peoples should stand together. But my recent experience at the seat of war, in London, and at other European capitals, has convinced me, against my will, that we must be slow in having faith that England is our friend. If the occasion required she would not hesitate to point her guns towards us, and her friendship would be turned to hostility in an hour. More true friendliness towards America exists in Germany or Russia to-day than in England. There is a serious fallacy in the premise that because we speak the language of England we are more closely allied to that country than to any other.

To return from the digression, the army officer of to-day, to be a complete success, must be exceedingly versatile in his accomplishments. He must not only be a careful student of the science of war, but he must also be a thorough business man. He must not only understand the tactics of attack and defense, but he must be able to tell the quality of hay and of butter. He must understand weights and measures as accurately as an ordinary shop-keeper. Real war of this day has a great deal of everything except fighting. Hundreds of men and officers go through an entire campaign and never hear a shot fired; instead, they study columns of figures, great sheets of warehouse returns, and manifold way-bills of freight shipments. They may worry over the price of wheat or the weight of live stock on the hoof, but never over bullets or bayonets. The only orders they give are written on little slips of “flimsy,” such as you see the station agent hand into the cab to the engineer just before the train pulls out. The only possible difference between this sort of an officer and a regular business man is that the officer wears a uniform and works much harder for less money.

During the Cuban campaign, and, in fact, ever since, the American officers have been called upon to perform every duty that man could do; and, greatly to their credit, they have in almost every case performed their tasks creditably. When in Havana with General Ludlow’s staff, for the first five months following the American occupation, I had an excellent opportunity to see the real worth of the American officer outside of his fighting qualities. Colonel Bliss was taken from his regiment and made Collector of the Port, and has performed the duties of that very peculiar and trying office, with raw clerks, incomparably better than it had ever been done before. Captain Charles G. Treat and Major Pitcher sat on the judicial bench and meted out justice in the police and criminal courts. Colonel Black suddenly found himself a superintendent of streets and of public works. Major Greble became the custodian of the poor. In fact, every office, from that of the governor-general down, in the entire government, was occupied by an army officer, whose performance of the new duty was more thorough and practical than could have been expected from most civilians. Not only were these officers called upon to attend to all matters of ordinary routine, but they were compelled to restore destroyed records, to delve into the land titles of the island, and to handle problems of a delicate nature which would seem to require the study of a lifetime.

1. General French and staff, South Africa.

2. American officers of the Eighth Infantry en route to the Philippines.

Not only the officers of the army, but also the officers of the navy, have had charge of an administration difficult and complicated; and in every case they have met the requirements of their unmilitary duty. The great majority of instances where this excellent work has been accomplished are hidden away in the records of the departments, and the men will never get the slightest notice for what they have done—because they did it well.

On this executive side of the modern soldier’s duty the British officers are also abundantly deserving of admiration for business-like efficiency. The selections made for civil administration in captured territory were, on the whole, fortunate. Especial credit belongs to the Army Service Corps, through whose splendid management the stupendous task of supply and transportation from the ends of the earth to the interior of Africa was effected without breakdown. There is, however, no comparison between the American and the British officers in the knowledge of their strictly military profession. This is not to be wondered at when their difference in training is considered. One has been taught to be a social success, while the other has been trained to be a man of tempered steel, being compelled to pass at each promotion an examination of which not half the officers of the British army could meet the requirements.

General Ian Hamilton in South Africa.

Until it comes to the critical test, however, the British army gets along just as well as though the officers worried themselves about the fine principles of the art of war. It is astonishing how dependent the officers are upon their men. One morning, while with General French’s staff during the operations in South Africa, I was waiting for a man to put the saddle on my horse; being rather impatient, as an action was expected, I remarked to one of the staff officers standing by that I would not wait, and so picked up my saddle, swung it on the horse, and began to cinch it up. The officer watched me in an interested, half-amused way for a moment, and then said, “My word! but you’re clever!” I asked what he meant. “Why,” he answered, “you can saddle your own horse.” “Most certainly,” I replied; “can’t you?” “Well,” said he, “I suppose I could, although I have never tried, for my man always does that.” And that man was a cavalry officer.

A signal difference between the English and American officer is that the former cannot forget his Piccadilly manner when he is in the field; while the latter, no matter whether he is a regular or a volunteer, once in the field he is a soldier through and through. There are some of this type in the British service, but they are few and far between.

One of the most typical soldiers I have ever seen in any service was Colonel Beech, now a captain of the Reserve, who was for about ten years commanding an Egyptian regiment of cavalry. He is still a young man, but he has had more experience in war than usually comes to any ten men. He has seven clasps to his Egyptian medal, having been in every campaign waged about the Nile by the British in conquering the country. He is a man of enormous force, and perfect knowledge of all branches of military work, and is to-day a better soldier than the majority of generals who are commanding. He is much the same type of man that Kitchener is, and naturally, as he was trained in the same school.

Lord Roberts is also a splendid type of the fine soldier, who has solved his problems, with all their difficulties, as a master genius of war. His critics in London contended that he was not severe enough in his handling of the people of the two Republics. But Lord Roberts understood the people he was dealing with, and sought to use conciliatory methods on that account. The present British army and the present generation in England have been accustomed to exceedingly harsh measures against their foes, who have usually been of half-civilized races; measures which were absolutely necessary in order to make any impression upon the sort of enemy they were fighting. The conditions during the present war are entirely different, and Lord Roberts has done all that he could—all any man could do—to bring matters to a close. It is deplorable that such a magnificent soldier should be unfairly criticised by those who keep at home. They do not realize that the prolonging of the war is not the fault of their general, but is due to the unconquerable spirit of the men whose country they are invading.

Brigadier-General Fitzhugh Lee, United States Army.

The two wars of the last three years have overthrown a great many traditions, suppositions, and theories regarding various branches of military service, both in the navy and the army; and a new collection of facts now stands in their stead. The American army has been hampered by the uncertainty of the theory, while the army of the British Empire has been bound to the traditions of past centuries to such a degree as to cost immeasurably the lives of thousands of her bravest men, and to cause a series of useless disasters and defeats, nearly all of which can be laid almost directly to incompetent officers of the sort that carry canes on active service and have tea served by body-servants every afternoon.

Major-General J. R. Brooke, United States Army.

An Australian war correspondent, Mr. Hales, has recently given his opinion of the British army in the London Daily News. He says: “I don’t suppose Australia will ever ask another Englishman to train her volunteers. If there was one British institution your colonial believed in more than another it was the British army. Their belief in the British army is shattered. The idol is broken.” He describes the officers as men “with their eye-glasses, their lisps, their hee-haw manners, their cigarettes, their drawling speech, their offensive arrogance, their astonishing ignorance, their supercilious condescensions, their worship of dress, their love of luxury, their appalling incompetence.

“Many a soldier I’ve asked why he scuttled. ‘Tommy, lad, why did you run, or why did you throw up your hands?’ I’d say.

“‘What’s the use of being killed?’ he’d answer. ‘’E don’t know where ’e are,’ meaning his officer. ‘I’d go anywheres if I’d a man to show me the way.’