February 8th - The Battle of LadySmith (01)

I had seriously misjudged a number of events, all innocuous on their own but collectively had the impetus of a runaway train.

I was levelled not by a feeling of impotence but by the heavy weight of guilt. I knew, KNEW I was responsible and wanted absolution; those magical words that would grant me a remission of sin.

I’d forewarned people but the more I pleaded, cajoled and threatened the more determined they became until finally my resolve dissipated like fine sand escaping from a clenched fist.

I scanned the desertified landscape swathed with the bodies of fallen men their limbs contorted and twisted like a forest of bleached dead wood. The thirsty soil had long since drunk it’s fill of blood and the cries of battle were replaced by a kettle of vultures screeching overhead.

The preponderant were countrymen, running their farms from the back of a pony with a rifle in one hand. These rural Boers brought marksmanship to the war further exploited by a consignment of Mauser magazine rifles and modern field guns supplied by Germany and France.

Our tactics were not flexible enough to adapt to a loosely formed force, we had been trained for tight formations to keep overwhelming enemy numbers at a distance which worked well against the Zulu and Sudan War but not here… not here.

We were incapable of winning battles against entrenched troops, we made the same mistakes over and over again; with the same disastrous consequences.