SOUTH AFRICA
1899-1902
Mr Collett’s legs were greatly improved with daily treatment. The ulcers were reduced from about eight inches in diameter to two inches. They were more superficial and were also drying out. Consequently, the smell in the room was improving. It was still dirty, with a faint whiff of urine hanging in the air, but the sickly-sweet stench had definitely gone. I realised that the smell must have been due to the suppuration of the wounds. If only he had sought treatment earlier, and not tried “do-it-yourself” remedies, the ulcers would never have got into such a state in the first place. I reduced the visits to alternate days, and then every third day, and the improvement was maintained.
Our sherry evenings continued as a regular feature, and I knew how much he loved my visits. He made no pretence about his joy at seeing me. I began to think that I was the only person who visited him and wondered about his family and friends. It was unusual, if not unknown, to see a Poplar man without either. Family life was close, and old people were valued. Neighbours lived on top of each other and were always in and out of each others’ doors, especially in the tenements. Yet I never saw nor heard of anyone popping in on Mr Collett to see if he was all right, to ask if he needed anything, or just to pass the time of day. I wondered why.
He said to me once, regarding his neighbours: “I’m not one of them, you know. I was not born and bred in Alberta Buildings, so they will never accept me.”
I asked him about his family. He said, simply and sadly, “I have outlived them all. It is God’s will that I should be left. One day we will be reunited.” He wouldn’t say any more, but I hoped that as time went on he might.
One evening, I asked him to tell me more about the Boer War.
“I was drafted in the autumn of 1899. My poor Sally was heartbroken. We were so happy at Windsor. We had a nice little army cottage. She did washing and mending for the officers and earned some money that way. She was happy, and as pretty as a picture. What’s that jingle now, let me think:
The Colonel’s wife looks like a horse
The captain’s wife is not much worse
The sergeant’s wife looks a bit slicker
But the private knows how to pick ’er.
“Or something like that. Anyway, my Sal was the prettiest girl in the regiment. Our twins were born, and they were on their feet and running around, when the postings came. We knew it would be for a long time. Sally and the boys couldn’t stay at Windsor, so they went back home to live with her mother. The flat is just above where we are sitting now. That’s why I like living here. I can sit of an evening, and think of Sally and the twins, when she was so young, living right above me.
“We sailed from Plymouth. There were crowds on the quayside, cheering, waving, singing. Some of the lads were happy and excited at going, but my heart was heavy, and a lot of others felt the same. I reckon that single men make the best soldiers, because they have few regrets about what they leave behind.”
He went on to describe the troopship, crowded with men and horses, carts and wagons, guns and munitions, food and supplies. The journey took five weeks. Discipline had to be very strict, because of living in such a close, crowded space. The men did hours of drill on deck. But they were in good spirits, because it all seemed like an adventure. “We were going to knock hell out of those Boer farmers who dared to defy the British Empire,” he said.
They landed at Durban and were ordered to form ranks and march. They weren’t told where they were going, just told to march. They marched for eight days in full winter uniform in the boiling heat, carrying 150 lb packs. The sun burned down relentlessly, and flies and mosquitoes followed them all the way. There were no roads, so they marched through open scrubland, and along rough tracks. The countryside was beautiful, and wild, nothing like home, but they were too tired and too hot to take it in.
“I was in a Highland Regiment, as you know – the Scots Guards – and I’ll tell you something: there is nothing in the world like the sound of the bagpipes to raise a man’s morale, to lift his spirits, and give him strength. However tired and thirsty we were, the bagpipes at the front of the column only had to strike up and within seconds you felt your feet lift off the ground, your step lighten, your spirits rise, and every man-Jack was marching strong, in rhythm to the pipes.” Mr Collett chuckled, straightened his shoulders, threw back his head, and swung his arms as though he were marching.
“There’s a photograph of my regiment hanging on the wall over there, if you’d like to have a look.”
I peered at the grey-and-yellow photo of a column of soldiers, which didn’t really mean a lot to me, but I said it looked impressive.
“Yes, it was impressive, you’re right. But, at the same time, it was insane.”
I was surprised to hear him say that.
“Well, you imagine: going to war, and marching through open country, soldiers in scarlet, playing bagpipes! Talk about secrecy or surprise tactics! The enemy could see and hear us for God knows how many miles around. And we never saw them. All over South Africa columns like ours were marching, and being attacked by an unseen enemy. Yet the British generals still didn’t learn. We carried on in our old swaggering ways, and lost countless thousands of young men because of it.”
He told me they were ordered to climb a hill one night. He didn’t know where, because none of them were told, but it was steep and treacherous, more like mountain terrain than a hill. They had no special climbing equipment. They wore their military uniforms with full pack, as well as rifle and bayonet, and were wearing boots made for marching, not for climbing. Nor were the men trained for mountaineering.
By dawn they had got to what they thought was the top, only to find that there were higher ridges all around that were invisible from below, and in which groups of armed men were hiding. When the whole brigade had gained the first ridge, fire opened up from all sides, from cannons, rifles and long-range muskets. They were completely unprepared. Hundreds of men were mown down before they could retaliate.
“I shall never forget the scene,” said Mr Collett. “The cries and screams were terrible to hear. We formed ranks and fired back, but our position was hopeless. We were in full view of an enemy we could not see. It was a day of gunfire, under a baking sun. No shelter, no water. Just relentless gunfire.”
By nightfall the barrage from the guns died away, and in the darkness all that could be heard were the cries and groans of the wounded. “We tried to help them, but we were stumbling over rocks and dead bodies. In any case, there were no doctors or medical orderlies, no bandages or morphine, no stretchers – nothing.” The men were ordered to retreat, and to leave the dead. In the sun the injured would die of thirst the following day. “That was the moment when I realised the truth of my mother’s words, that we were just ‘cannon-fodder’. Young private soldiers were ordered, time and time again, to march directly into gunfire, and High Command didn’t give a damn how many died, nor the cost in human suffering.” Mr Collett was trembling and his voice was shaky.
He bit his lip to control himself.
“And would you believe it, it was all unnecessary. Of course, we didn’t know it at the time – the ordinary soldier didn’t – but there had been no reconnaissance. There were no maps of the terrain, and no scouts had been sent ahead to assess the area or the heights of the various hills. If we’d had a ground map, the whole incident would never have happened. The British lost two thousand men that day, the Boers two hundred – all because there was no reconnaissance.