A DUST STORM IN MANCHURIA.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVI, Issue 75, 29 March 1905, Page 3

A DUST STORM IN MANCHURIA.

» The following experiences of a famous war correspondent in Manchuria gain additional interest from the fact that the Japanese made one of the decisive movements of the recent battle under cover of a heavy dust'stoim. "Mud and dust are the alternatives, of a ifauchuri-an existence. Dirt that engrains Itself into one's innermost viscera is the result. It is an honourable dirt, the stamp on a man's activity. It becomes then brawled general better than his shoulder straps. It is the pride of the veteran, the wonder of the recruit, the disgust of the dilettante. "To us who are correspondents it is a uniform binding us m a brotherly grime. We read men's journeys in the mud stains on their breeches. We estimate their travail by the sand dunes on their faces. Their hands are geological records. "The dust of Manchuria is of a finer, more insidious character than the driven gilt of Berber or the pulverised quart— of Kimberley. It has not the rich ruby red of the dust of South Africa, but it is a tawny yellow, flying light, drifting far, insinuating itself through every cranny, embedding itself in every pore. "Each day when the sun has gained a little warmth the wind rises, the dust begins to fly. By noontime one rides through a burning, prickling sand fog that veils the sun, masks the landscape, and smears the. fresh Manehurlan sprmgla.ud khaki colour. Till three or four of the afternoon the warm southerly wind continues to strengthen, the sand continues to swirl, your pony coughs and sneezes, your throait feels like the chimney from the furnace of Shadiach, Mesehaeh, and Abednego. Your temper is inextricably ouried in the dust drift. "Yesterday the dust storm was particularly noxious. The wand was of hurricane strength, the mud of the past week had dried up and lashed itself s -oss the plain in stinging blasts of hot. 'Vy .""'raited grit. Early in the day my pat).-.' Window had Mown in about my ears wailc'\_ was writing, encircling mc like a clown with bis hoop. Tea was the only possible/ salve-for my vexed spirit and badly blistered throat—and tea I had irone. "I turned my pony's steps out from the hummocks we had been threading for miles on the prairie into the road that led to Mukden. A wide space before the Great West Gate, vast as a parade ground, was th» sporting ground of the dust demons. Three days before, when 1 crossed it, the mud had been up to my pony's withers, derelect transport waggons had marked the route of a baggage train. "Yesterday it was a swirling, sweeping hell of venemous dust particles, the agitated sweepings of a city. The grit drove into niv throat and choked it, filled my nostrils, pingtd against my skin through tunic and riding breeches. . My sulky pony dtooped his head still lower, and cowered before the storm. I spurred him on to where a Red Cross flag fluttered grimly fr*om a pole. "The flag stood opposite a door in a high brick wall, guarded by a sentry. A word to the soldier and the door swung open. Pony and I clattered into a cool and shaded courtyard. Softly the door closed behind us. and we were in a new world, a world of peace and wonderful calm. Pony raised his head and shook off the recollection of the outer pandemoniiKn. I gave myself over to the care of a Red Cross nurse, who smiled kindly at my dirt smeared face. "With the setting of the sun the wind bad fallen, and the dust clouds were at rest. I rode away from the temple. The Htt'le clay dogs and purple dragons on the llama's roof tree grinned a~ grotesque 'good night' They had seen so many changes in this sacred city of Mukden. The fltist nnd the mud alone stayed constant. 'Prst to dust' is more thnn n requiem in Manchuria. It is a philosophy."