It was my father. We had no idea of meeting each other
here, as I had parted from him in Johannesburg before the war began,
when he had no intention of going to Natal. He himself had been under
the impression that I was still at Ladysmith.
He told me he had come to see my young cousin, Johannes, who had been
wounded on Spion Kop the day before. We walked over to the hospital. The
wounded lad, a frail boy of fifteen, looked terribly exhausted lying
there on the floor, his left arm completely shattered.
"We were two together," he said, "myself and another boy. We crept
closer and closer to one of the small sangars, firing into it as we
crept, until there was only one Englishman left alive in it. He called
out 'Water!' and I ran to give him my flask. When I got close to him he
pointed his gun at me and fired. I sprang aside, and the bullet
ploughed up my arm. My chum then shot him dead. Our doctor was too busy
with the English officers to attend to me, so I fear I shall lose my
arm."
Poor child! his fear was only too well founded. His arm was amputated,
after which he went to his uncle's farm to recuperate. When the British
arrived there he would not surrender, but took his gun and went on
commando. Three days later he was brought in, shot through the lungs.
That is the last I have been able to hear of him.
A few days after the battle of Spion Kop we moved forward and opened
another office on our right wing.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45