THE BOER WAR.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume X, Issue 506, 5 April 1900, Page 8

THE BOER WAR.

(Fbom Oub Special Was Cobbbspondbni) (all Eights Resebved.) IMAGINATIVE WAR CORRESPONDENTSAN ATTEMPT TO JOIN BULLER. A JACK-IN-OFFICE-Dubban, February 6. The war has lately developed a new type of journalism, which, as a member of the older school of war correspondents, I much deplore, for it is a difficult matter to keep pace with certain up-to-date members cf the profession now in South Africa. First of all there is the “ Snapshot under fire ” photographer, which I thought in this campaign, owing to the accurate shootir g of the Boer, would not last long, but he is still as bold and rampant as ever. I was admiring the pluck and recklessness of a colleague in taking these snap-shots under bullet fire of the foe, especially one representing a section of the Dublin Fusiliers at the battle of Colenso. The men are blazing away into space from behind rocky boulders, and I was wondering how on earth the intrepid artist could get such good results under such exciting circumstances. The exact focus, distance, and, above all, the sun in the right place, while the Boers were blazing away at himself and his camera, and in spite of the men around him nursing cover,'no doubt swearing and cursing at the artist who, by his bold attitude, was drawing an extra hail of nickel bullets. Eventually arriving in Natal, where most of these lovely pictures came from, I received a shock regarding the snap-shots in question. I was speaking to a young officer of the “ Dubs ” about these photos appearing in a weekly illustrated paper, when he laughingly told me that the special artist in question had asked him to POSE A NUMBER OF HIS MEN as “artists’ models” behind a ridge of rocks at Frere, and, to his surprise, they came out in the papers as “ The Dubs under fire at the battle of Colenso, by our special artist under fire.” Travelling from Maritzburg to Durban, an officer of the colonial staff, who was, for a time, in charge of two guns at the front, told me that the same snap shotter had asked him to pose his gun with men skirmishing round it, and this picture afterwards appeared as a snap-shot taken in the throes of a bloody battle. Then I was referred to a photo, “ On board the armoured train,” supposed to be under fire. Here the models distinctly gave the artist away. Many of the men are playing their parts, pulling their triggers at imaginary Boers, but others cannot resist turning towards the camera with a pleasant grin to have, as Tommy says, “their mugs struck.” I simply mention these facts for the benefit of the public, who are apt to look upon photos as above suspicion. In fact, as a colleague of mine once said : “ You know the camera can never lie.” After all it depends on whether there is a liar at the back of the camera ! Of course there is some excellent photographic work being done on the battlefield, especially by Mr Lynch, of the Illustrated London News. But the battlefield and the “fighting line,” in our days, are two different things. This heroic war artist is even beaten in audacity by a war correspondent who has lately enlightened his readers with a description of the battle of Magersfontein. But that this article appeared in a sedate London daily, and was copied in the colonial papers here, as by a “ master-band,” I would not refer to it. One cannot help admiring the sang-froid of the writer. He does not hesitate for one moment, but lets his imagination run riot through three columns of the most soul-stirring, blood-and-thunder—as Mr Atkins would say, “tommy rot ” At the outset he starts in with probably the most flagrant inaccuracy a correspondent can be capable of. 1 his for instance: “At every point of vantage, Cronje, with consummate generalship,

had posted his artillery,” and “ At the bottom of the kopje right under the muzzle of his guns.” Now, for a fact, CRONJE HAD NO ARTILLERY at Magersfontein till many hours after the battle. I, myself, saw the first shot fired about 530 of the evening of the day of the battle from a solitary gun in the centre of his position. Then this correspondent rants on : “ The Boer forces we e estimated at from 15,000 to 22,000 men.” Never did any sane man admit that there were more than 5000 of the enemy. He is also just as much astray regarding the number of men on our side. Then comes the following drivel, I say drivel for it absolutely borders on insanity : “Our forces, estimated at about 11,000 men of all arms, including the never-to-be-forgotten section of the Naval brigade, to whom England owes a debt of gratitude too deep for words to portray, for their steadiness, valour, and accuracy of shooting saved England from disaster on this blacker(sic)day that Scotland has known since the Crimea.” This surely can only be the ravings of a lunatic. We had onek'l naval gun firing Lyddite, and, to this day, it is mere supposition regarding the damage to life that gun was capable of. Then comes the disaster to the Highland Brigade, the death of Wauchope, which would be almost comical but for the sadness and seriousness of the incidents portrayed : “ The best, the bravest, fell in that wild hail of lead. General Wauchope was down, riddled with bullets, yet gasping, dying, bleeding from every vein, the Highland chieftain raised himself on his hands and knees, and cheering his men forward, etc.” Can the public for a moment believe a man riddled with bullets and bleeding from every vein could take any interest in passing events ? For a fact, not a soul knew what had become of the General for two whole days. Some were in hopes that he was a prisoner and only wounded. His body was eventually found FAR AHEAD OF HIS MEN, DEAD AND ALONE’ He was the first man to carry out his own order, and he died in the van For the love of sanity I hope the British public will not believe this idiotic trash—for one can hardly speak calmly of this folly. In speaking of the Guards, he says : “ They got within hitting distance of the foe, swept through brisket and breast bone. Out of their trenches the Guardsmen tossed the Boers, as men in English harvest fields toss the hay when the reapers’ scythes have whitened the cornfields.” The Guards may number some big men among them, but the Boers are not a puny people. The only trenches that the enemy vacated were two held by the Scandinavian Contingent, and there was “no tossing ” Then followed this picture of Cronje; “Cronje knew the metal of our men, and an ironical smile p ayed round his iron mouth, and still he stayed within his natural fortress. But death sat ever a’ his elbow, for our gunners dropped the Lyddite shell and the howling shrapnel ” (1 wonder if the writer has ever heard shrapnel. It never howls —nor does it bark) “ all along his lines until the trenches ran blood, and many of his guns were silenced.” But Cronje had no guns, and lam afraid that metallic smile was too far off to ba viewed by any one not possessing second sight, at least Then this interesting correspondent describes : “ In the valley, behind his outer line of bills, his dead lay piled in hundreds, and the slope of the hill was a charnel-house where the wounded all writhed amidst masses of dead, a ghastly tribut? to English gunnery.” Of course, this is what we should have liked to have seen, but no binocular on that battlefield could show us what was hidden behind those hills, and not even that war correspondent would dare to go and see for himself. The stuff is all romance and very misleading. He finishes the lurid article with this bold statement: “We left nearly three thousand dead and wounded of grim old Oronje’s men as a toke.t that the lion of England had bared his teeth in earnest.” General Methuen himself would doubt whether in all his four great fights at Belmont, Grasspane, and Modder River he had punished the enemy to the extent of half that number.

It is letters of this description that are published seriously by London dailies, which create friction between the Press and the British commanding officers. The gross exaggerations, the lurid local colour, and the purely imaginative element as, for instance, an inci ‘ent I was about to forget, but which is perhaps the funniest thing of all in this phantasy of <la ersfontein. In describing the Highland attack, he relates : “ In a second, in the twinkling of an eye, the searchlights of the Boers fell abroad and clear as the noonday sun on the ranks of the doomed Highlanders.” THE BOERS HAD NO SEARCH-LIGHTS WHATEVER. the Highland Brigade advanced in a mist, and nothing was seen by many but the flash of the Mausers piercing the haze of early morning. How can British officers look on war correspondents and war artists with any feeling but disgust when bogus descriptions and fictions like these I have just mentioned are seriously published in the English Press ? Both war artists and correspondents must depend on outside information and material for sketches sometimes, for they cannot be everywhere. But when it comes to the questim of if the enemy had artillery or no, or if search-lights were used, or whether 300 or 3000 were killed and wounded, the correspondent who cannot glean better information ought to try his hand at “ shilling shockers.” And the artist who poses his soldiers and guns in line of battle, unless from the actual front, and palms them off as his heroic snap-shots under fire, is too smart and clever for his profession. Perhaps one may seem rather bitter regarding these inventive members of one’s profession, but lately the British authorities have not been courteous to war correspondents, and no wonder, for the authorities seldim discriminate, and if one falls foul of them, we are all more or less tarred with the same brush. As an instance of this, finding things hang fire in Cape Colony, I MADE MY WAY TO NATAL, thinking I should be in time for the movement for the relief of Ladysmith, which eventually ended in Buller being compelled to recross the Tngela after the disaster at Spion Kop. It is during a reverse that the lees discreet correspondents are looked on with disfav ur, for they are liable to misconstrue a strategic retrograde movement into a retreat, and cause unnecessary alarm. I had the greatest difficulty in getting to the front, but at last, after much persuasion, I was granted a pass as far as Rail head Camp but not to join my colleagues, because a sufficient number of correspondents were already there. I left Durban at 4 50 in the afternoon, and on arriving at Maritzburg had my pass vised by the Staff Officer for Chievely, and, to clinch the matter, a pro ninent official was courteous enough to allow me to proceed in his special carriage ; yet, under the wing of this officer, when I arrived at Ebteourt at 3.30 a m., I was fired out, and no' allowed to proceed till my pass was countersigned by the officer in command at Est ourr. “ Very well, ’ said 1 ; ‘where is this officer? ’ “Oh, you can’t see him now. he s asleep ” “ But, I replied, “ the train is about to proceed 1” *• Well, you can’t go ; you mnst remain until the pass is signed.” It was a wet, disgusting mo niug, and I was about to roll myself up iu my rug on the platform till dawn, when the Station Staff Officer was £o;d enough to offer me his offi.'e to sleep in, and told me that I was not alone in my misery, for all passengers had to be turned out of the train. THERE WAS NO DISTINCTION. The order is very strict from General Buller to stop every one. “ When will the commandant be ready to sign my pass ?” said I. At 7 30, o morrow morning, if you go to his tent yo i can get it signed, and proceed by a train leaving at eight.” Well, I thought, ;,this not bo bad after

all. I shall be at the front by midday. So I went to sleep till 6 a.m., when I paced the station till the commandant should awake. On arriving at his tent I found the officer had gone for his morning ride, and would not be back until eight. “ But that won’t do,” said I; “at eight the train leaves.” “ Can’t be helped. He won’t be back.” I returned to the station and found some eight passengers bewailing their fate. One was a Colonial officer in mufti, about to take command of a volunteer amubulance corps. Another was the chief detective of Durban, others were Jew sutlers, and above all, one of General Buller’s bsggage-drivers, aud a special sutler, who was deploring the fact that he had fresh eggs and a case of apples for the General, and at least his eggs might spoil. When I informed the little crowd of the absence of the commandant, to say the least of it, they were furious. They were even more furious when the eight o’clock train rolled out of the station and left us standing in the drizzling rain. Though we were all under martial law, we rather kicked at the behaviour of the commandant, who kept us waiting while he had his bath, breakfast, and the necessary cigar. The order came that we might SEE HIM AT HIS OFFICE AT TEN. Huddled under the verandah of a tin building out of the rain, we stood for two hours waiting for the gentleman in office to attend to our wants. At last he arrived, and passed into his office, and evidently we poor wretches —for now a few Kaffirs had joined our little crowd—were too offensive for his official eyes, so he closed the door in our faces. Perhaps some of our indignant looks may have made him a little nervous, for when the door opened it was only ajar, and the slit was guarded by a sergeant, who ushered us in one by one. The whole scene reminded me of a police supervision of passports on the Russian frontiers. The sergeant, after securing the door firmly, advanced to the table, at which eat the colonel in command, with a subordinate officer at his side, who received the piece of paper representiug my pass from the sergeant, and apparently suspicious of some contamination, held it gingerly between thumb and finer, read it, and then passed it on to the colonel, who also read it, and though he could see perfectly well that it was signed and guaranteed to the front, he hemmed and hawed, and at last said : “ And what may your business be?” “Oh, don’t bother about that,” said the applicant, “ I have been badgered about for the last six days getting this pass, and I am rather tired. KINDLY MAKE OUT A PASS BACK TO DURBAN. Thank you ” The next train to Chievely left at a little after one, and we had been kept by the commandant since three o’clock in the morning, some nine hours, waiting for his august signature. After all a war correspondent is not a Jew sutler nor a Kaffir, and might receive a little more attention while he is in the execution of his duty. * Of coarse one does not always meet with a Jack in-office of this description. With General Lord Methuen’s and General French’s columns all officers are m st courteous to correspondents bearing their credentials, at least, that is my own experience; but, probably when a few more letters are published after the fashion I have dravn attention to, our militiry friends will love us less Frsderic Villiees.