Thunder in the Distance: Coming of Age in Africa

By Peter Cleary

Late nineteenth century Britain gave few breaks for those born poor and of low social standing.

So it was for Fynn Armstrong the youngest of six children born to croft farmers in the Scottish town of Perth on the River Tay. He elects to change his dismal life options and visits the local recruitment centre for the Black Watch Highland Regiment and signs up for duty in the Second Anglo Boer War.

It could result in his death, or it could be his ticket to a life of opportunity and adventure in Africa.

In the next five years Fynn Armstrong experiences the loneliness and danger of being a sniper in the Drakensberg Mountains, a hunter on a large cattle ranch in the Tuli Block of Bechuanaland, and facing-off against a powerful Ndebele chief in the Matopos Hills of Rhodesia.

A rite of passage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Cleary Books
• Release date: Mar 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9780639766744

Book preview

PART ONE

The Sniper - South Africa

Chapter 1

He waited his moment until the tender bumped against the stone of the quay, then stepped out of the pitching boat, and climbed the stone stairs that mounted to the quayside and he stopped there, staring at that huge flat-topped mountain, and a strong feeling of fate assailed his senses.

Move along, laddie.

He obeyed, but his eyes remained on that scene, one that had been imprinted on his mind and maybe even his soul, for he laid much store on that moment.

They had shown them pictures of southern Africa at the Black Watch recruitment centre in Perth, to soften them up, he thought, take away the fear of the war. The real Table Mountain at the southern end of Africa was so much more, so much more than the mountains where he had lived, at the edge of the real highlands.

He had landed in Africa, part of the Black Watch regiment that had been held in reserve, now called upon to join Methuen’s eastern column.

Africa.

Fynn Armstrong had dreamt of that moment. It was his escape from the drudgery of his life in Perthshire, Scotland. If he had not left he would have done something stupid, hurt someone or indulged in behaviour that would have made him a rebel, maybe even a criminal, so desperate had he been.

It was a war, but he discarded that thought. Here he was in a land on the frontier of civilization, barely tamed. There would be this war and then he would be free to go north, into the heart of the continent, into places where perhaps no European had walked.

Fynn Armstrong was 18 years of age that windy day in the port of Cape Town in the month of November, 1899.

He came from a crofter family outside Perth, upstream on the banks of the River Tay. His father also had employment as a stonemason, and away from the small farm when he had work. There were six children and another two who had died in childbirth.

Fynn was the youngest which gave him more reason to leave, as it was he who tended to the crops when his father was away. All of his siblings had left the croft. Why he had a sense of responsibility to do that service, from the age of fifteen, he did not know. His parents were quite capable of tending to that small piece of land themselves and could make a living if there were only the two of them.

And so he finally made the decision to leave, leave his strict and sometimes drunken father, and his mother who was weary beyond care.

They were hardly interested when he announced he was joining the army, other than a plea to send money home, and perhaps a sense of relief that there would be one less mouth to feed. He sometimes felt that they would not even notice his absence, nor even his death.  Better that he take his chance on a life elsewhere, a life that he believed would be adventurous and rewarding, that would fill him with purpose and joy. Somewhere out there in the vastness of Africa he would find that life that would make of him a man fulfilled.

He did not know why he occasionally thought of the old home, and would never have believed that a time would come when thought of those gentle hills and the green grass would fill him with nostalgia.

That was for the future. On that day in November on the shores of Africa, his anticipation filled him with elation.

* * *

Come on, Armstrong. Get a goddamned move on.

He looked around to see Sergeant Gardiner, the senior NCO of his platoon.

Sorry, sergeant.

He hefted the heavy pack to his shoulder and set off after the men of his platoon and fell in with his three buddies. They were a varied group, the four of them, but had joined together, done their basic training together, and ended up in the same platoon.  That was the glue which initially brought them together: a shared space and destiny.

Gawking at your bloody mountain, Fynn?

That was Sam Gordon, a seventeen-year-old boy from Dundee on the Firth of Tay, just up the road from Perth. Sam, although the youngest, was always the most precocious one of them, always with a comment.

Yeah, amazing ain’t it?

Just a mountain, Fynn. We’ll see plenty more of them.

Never like this one.

I think it’s bloody marvellous. Do you think we can climb it? asked Will Samuels, the Jewish boy from Edinburgh.

Will’s father owned a small grocery shop which put him in a different money class to the fathers of the other three, all of them who eked out a subsistence living from small farms.

Don’t be daft, Will, we’re here to fight a war, not climb a bloody mountain.

Yeah, but there’s always time, Clem. You’ve seen it, all that time when we’ve got bugger all to do.

Clem Dougal, the oldest of them from Falkland, south of the Tay, had always tried to be the leader, always trying to make the reasoned comment, summing it all up.

So where are we going now, Clem?

Dunno, they ain’t said nothing yet. Just follow on, Fynn. Maybe we get straight on the train, maybe we stay here a while.

I wouldn’t mind that, but I reckon they want us up north straight away.

He was right.  They were hefting their personal kit to the railway station, not far, but there they were to stay, on the platform until that afternoon, lounging on their kit and in small talking groups and noticing the girls, and they noticing back, giggling at their kilts.

Finally a train pulled in, steam puffing out from under the wheels like the whiskers of a wild boar.

Their platoon sergeant, Gardiner, shouted out the instructions.

This be our train, lads! All of us in one carriage! Just follow me!

It took hours to load that train, all of the kit of several infantry companies. Their company commander, Major Allison, a fussy little man full of self-importance, stood on the platform with his junior officers, watching, letting the NCOs do the work of ordering the men and getting the kit loaded.

One of those officers was theirs, Second Lieutenant McLeish, a young man, not much older than they were. The four talked about him a lot, nervous that he was to lead them into war. They knew he had bought his commission and that it was his first posting. It was not ideal for their first ever combat mission.

They had a different opinion of Sergeant Gardiner, a seasoned man who had been with the brigade for more than a decade and seen action in Europe. It was their hope that their officer would listen to Gardiner, and recognise his experience, but that was not what they had observed during their training.

Finally, late in the afternoon, the train pulled out.

Fynn, who had claimed a window seat on the side of the mountain, tuned out the talk of his friends and watched that scene, the sun setting behind the mountain formed a rim of light along its top and side and then he lost that view when the train turned in a more northerly direction, but looking forward a scene just as inspiring confronted him: a ring of mountains in the distance to his right, 30, 40 miles of them, the full setting sun colouring them golden.

It was an omen. His adventure had started.

Chapter 2

They were not to go directly to the front. Gardiner gave them the news the next morning as they travelled through a vastly different landscape:  wide-open country with a few, mostly flat-topped hills, and a wealth of colour on the flowering plants carpeting the ground alongside the rails, and aloes, some standing as tall as a man.

Okay, lads, quiet now. I’ve got some news.

He stood at the end of their open coach and had to raise his voice to get their attention.

Lord Methuen’s brigades have fought and won two battles.

That brought a cheer from the men.

"Hold on, lads, them battles were in the nature of skirmishes. The army is still advancing along this very railway line and now a couple of hundred miles from Kimberley. They don’t need us to come up yet so we are going to stop at a place called De Aar, a kind of railway junction town. It’s where the rail comes from the Eastern Cape and meets this here line, and then goes on north to Johannesburg.

You all got that? Okay. We will be doing sentry and patrol duties around De Aar until we are called to the front.  Any questions?

Fynn Armstrong felt a sense of relief. He would have a chance to explore this interesting country they were travelling through. And he did not like big crowds. He also knew the Methuen column would contain many brigades including some English brigades. He knew few Englishmen.

Are there Boers in this place where we be stopping, sarge? asked one of the men near the front of the carriage.

Yes, they say there be some small groups, horsemen, so we must be wide awake.

There were no more questions.

Right, lads, we are expecting to reach this De Aar place around lunch time. Enjoy sitting on your bums, watching the view. There will be plenty of work setting up camp when we stop.

* * *

Major Allison took the opportunity, in that dry and barren place where they camped on a dusty rugby field surrounded by gum trees, to acclimatise the troops of his company. He had intelligence that said where they would join at Methuen’s camp was a similar climate and landscape: hot and dry.

The very next day they went on patrol, setting out in different directions by platoon, and then splitting further to a section of seven men and one NCO to command. Second Lieutenant McLeish and Sergeant Gardiner took it in turns to patrol with one of the four sections each day.

That day they did 15 miles, taking it easy, needing the stretch of their muscles after weeks on the boat, but they were told by Gardiner that evening that the next day they would be tested properly, a 30-mile patrol starting early without breakfast.

Take some biscuits and full canteens, laddies. We’ll give you a proper slap up supper for those what make it.

That evening the four friends discussed it.

Shit, mates, that sun will burn the shit outa us, commented Will Samuels who had had the toughest of it that day, not used to the outdoors and physical effort like the three farmers’ sons.

Piece of cake, answered Fynn. It’ll take us 8 to 10 hours.  Should be a good test.

We never even did 30 mile in Scotland, said Clem. It’ll be tough, Fynn, don’t be so gung-ho. You’ll see.

Fynn Armstrong would not allow his optimism and sense of adventure to be suppressed, but said nothing further.

As it was to turn out they did not make the 30 miles, but not because they did not have the stamina or will to do so.

* * *

Fynn was on point and reached the brow of the ridge first and looked down on a small farmstead in the valley below, at least a mile away, he reckoned. He signalled to the others and their NCO, Corporal Etheridge, and Sergeant Gardiner who was patrolling with them that day, came up and squatted next to him.

They were two hours into the patrol, maybe seven or eight miles from their camp, in a north-easterly direction.

Etheridge opened his map.

It’s not shown on the map.

He placed a forefinger on the spot where he thought they were.

What do you think, sergeant?

Let’s ask Armstrong. So, laddie, speak.

It’s obviously a farmhouse, sergeant, and a sheep farm. It looks kinda new. Should be peaceful, but they warned us that some of these folks could be rabid about their land. And those Mausers can knock us off at seven, eight hundred yards. They’ll see us when we go over this ridge – plenty of time to line us up if that’s what they want to do.

Gardiner’s opinion of the young farmer from Perth was vindicated, but he kept on probing.

So what do we do?  Leave it alone, go around out of rifle fire?

What would be the point of patrolling then, sergeant? We need to check ‘em out.

Carry on.

Fynn looked anew at the scene before them. The house was built on the west side of a knoll.

Fall back, sergeant, and go around over there.

He pointed to his right where the ridge dropped down to a gap where a dry river bed ran through.

Go through that gap and approach them upstream, keeping that knoll between them and us. Leave someone up here to signal if them in that house see us and try to get into position on that knoll.

Very good. What do you say, corporal?

I agree, sergeant.

Okay, that’s what we’ll do. Who do you reckon we should leave up here, Armstrong?

Will Samuels, sergeant.

He’s one of your mates. Trying to give him a break?

That was precisely what Fynn had in mind. His friend was already struggling.

No, sergeant. Will is sharp. He’ll keep a good lookout.

Okay, good plan, Armstrong.

It made Fynn’s day and he felt no pain in the more than a mile and a half of walking before they came to the knoll with the house unseen less than 100 yards beyond. Up to then it was a game, none of them expecting any trouble.

Gardiner kept on giving Fynn the chance to prove himself and called him forward.

Okay, Armstrong, get up there and report back what you see.

There was little cover on that knoll, just dry stubby bushes and Fynn instinctively avoided the top, slithering around to the side mostly hidden in the bushes. He looked and looked, not wanting to make a mistake. It was mid-morning, hot and quiet, no wind.

He waited another five minutes knowing the men behind would be getting restless expecting him back, But he wasn’t going to make a mistake which might get someone killed. His patience was rewarded. He saw a movement at one of the windows, stared at the spot. A rifle barrel back there in the shadows, and then he made out the figure of a person, quite small.

He looked at the second open window on that side of the house and once again his patience was rewarded. Another rifle, another person. He slithered back until they could no longer see him, got up and moved quickly back to the waiting men.

They is expecting us, sergeant. They be at least two of them at the windows facing this way and I saw a rifle barrel back in the shade in each window.

Okay, you seen ‘m straight away?

No, they was hidden.

Gardiner was enjoying the interchange with the young man from Perthshire. The others were all listening, their first ever contact, and he wished to take the lesson as far as possible. Armstrong was one of those rare recruits who seemed to have an instinct for it. He had not been rushed, not panicked, waited out the people in the house until they made a mistake and moved.

Now, Armstrong, would you talk ‘m out of that there house or shoot ‘m out?

Well, I guess it would always be better to have a peaceful end, sergeant, but they might be Dutch speakers and not understand.

Okay, we’ll try the peaceful way first. Corporal, take four men on that side of the hill, and I’ll go this side with Armstrong and one other.

He pointed at Fynn’s friend, Clem.

You, Dougal. And keep your heads down, lads. No good it getting shot off if we’re trying to be peaceful.

Once again Fynn found himself slithering through those dry prickly bushes to the place where he had been before. Although he had been expecting it, he got a start when Gardiner yelled out.

HEY! YOU PEOPLE IN THE HOUSE! THIS IS THE BRITISH ARMY. WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. COME OUT OF THAT HOUSE NOW. YOU WILL NOT BE HURT IF YOU DO THAT. SO COME ON OUT NOW.

Nothing happened for a few long minutes and then the door on that side of the house opened, and an old man and a young girl came out without weapons, gazing fearfully up at the small hill.

IS THAT ALL OF YOU IN THAT HOUSE?

A thin voice came back.

Ja. meneer.

Okay, Armstrong, go down, make sure, and signal back to us when you’ve cleared that house.

Fynn felt weird exposing himself by standing on the side of that small knoll and then walking down to the old man and the girl. Then he calmed himself, trusting in the instincts of Sergeant Gardiner that there would not be more people in the house. They would never expose their own if they intended an ambush.

He felt elated that his opinions had been sought and turned out to be the right things to do. That was not normally the way of the British army, and he was grateful for the chance given to him by Gardiner. This was the way he had anticipated a life in the army, the thrill he had hoped for.

The girl looked to be about 11 or 12 and he could see she was terrified. The old man looked sullen and angry.

Good morning, sir.

Ja, môre.

I see you don’t have any English.

Nee.

I’m just going to search your house and then the men will come down.

He looked at the girl.

We mean you no harm, miss, and he smiled at her.

She stared back at him and said nothing, but he could see the smile had helped her in a slight way.

The house was small, and empty, and he collected the two rifles, older weapons, not Mausers, and walked back out to stand with the two farmers.

ALL CLEAR, SERGEANT!

Chapter 3

The incident with the old Boer and the young girl worried Fynn on many fronts. He remembered mostly the fear on the young girl’s face, and yet she had been prepared to defend her home. Neither she nor the old man should be involved in war, and yet they were. It gave him a new perspective on the people they were fighting, made him feel the British army were the intruders, the bullies in the fight.

And he did not like the fact that they took their weapons away, leaving two vulnerable people defenceless. He had enlisted for the adventure it promised, with never a real thought about the ethics of the fight nor the resolve or righteousness of their foe.

It had been brought home to him by a girl and an old man, and it spoilt his initial joy at being offered an opportunity to test his understanding of the tactics needed to approach that lone farm house.

They continued their daily patrols, walking long distances through empty lands in mid-summer heat of a kind never experienced in their home countries. And those who did not protect themselves suffered sunburn, even blistering on exposed skin surfaces. It was a hostile environment, but it gave them little inkling of the horror they were to face within weeks.

* * *

They were to be in their De Aar camp for less than two weeks before getting the call to the front. The news was given to them shortly after they returned from yet another day patrol. Lieutenant McLeish was asked to report to the command tent, and Gardiner was told to hold them together and the sergeant led them to the edge of the field under the shade of the blue gums.

There was some nervousness, but it was not the first time they had been held together for a briefing.

McLeish came out of the command tent with his fellow officers, spotted them and came across. They could tell by his mien that this was the real thing, the news that they were to be called to the front, presumably to join the relief of Kimberley.

Gardiner called them to attention, but McLeish had them stand at ease, and then, because he had to look up to them where they stood on a bank he told them to sit.

"Well, lads, we have the call-up. It seems that at a river called the Modder, about 16 miles from Kimberley, our divisions ran into the Boer army which had entrenched at the river. It seems we could not advance to more than 1000 yards of them because there was no cover, but some of our lads managed to get close to them at a ford on their right flank.

"Then this morning, they found the Boers had abandoned their positions and withdrawn. So in the end it was just a one day hold-up. This has happened in all of the contacts we’ve had on this eastern front. Either the Boer has no stomach for a fight or does not have the big guns for a pitched battle.

Nevertheless now that it seems the Boers have been reinforced by numbers from the Transvaal, we are required to join the effort. We break camp tonight and will entrain tomorrow morning.

Fynn thought the lieutenant had not told them the full story. It was not consistent with the look that had been on his face as he came across to them, and it was not consistent with his new view of the resolve of the Boers. It was a view that, he conceded to himself, came from an old man and a young girl, but it was a view that he believed was true.

He wanted to ask about casualties but could not without an invitation to do so. Fortunately Sergeant Gardiner asked the question.

Any word about casualties, sir?

Fynn saw the annoyance on the officer’s face.

No, not really known yet. Unfortunately Lord Methuen was injured, but he is able to carry on.

They all knew that if a general was injured, the battle must have been more than a skirmish.

The four friends sat with their kit on the open De Aar platform that night talking about what might be facing them. Sleep was not needed; they had a full day of travel on the train ahead of them, plenty of time to sleep.

Will Samuels was the first one to raise the opinion that the battle at the Modder River was more than had been revealed.

I think our officer was holding back on us.

C’mon, Will, they all do that, said Clem.

Fynn was not yet ready to concede that there was deceit in their leadership.

I’m sure they just think it’s better for our morale to not speak about it.

Yeah, Fynn, but that sort of shit can get us killed. Better we know than live in a fairy story.

Well, we’ll find out today, Clem.

It turned out it would be the next day. The train sent for them from Cape Town only arrived that afternoon, and it was to be the following morning when the train stopped short of the Modder River. The bridge had been blown by the retreating Boers.

They saw then the tunnels on the south side of the river, hundreds of yards long on both sides, and the many gun emplacements, and saw more rifle entrenchments on the north side of the river after they crossed on the temporary pontoon bridge erected by the Royal Engineers.

There would have been thousands of Boers holding that position. And they had seen the lack of any cover on the approach to the river from the south.

Shit, this was a big ‘un, said Clem.

They found out within an hour from fellow Highlanders in the Seaforth Brigade that more than 70 British soldiers had died and nearly 400 injured. Not really a small battle, and the friends knew they had been lucky not to have been there, and Fynn also knew that what he had signed up for was not going to be an adventure. Five hundred men was probably equal to the entire male adult population of his hometown.

And they had not even got to the real job, the relief of Kimberley, the diamond town that had captured the imagination of the whole world.

* * *

Fynn felt alienated by the size of the camp on the other side of the Modder River. It spread for miles: different regiments, different uniforms, gun battalions, hundreds of tents. And in the days which followed, his unease did not diminish, was even increased as he observed the behaviour of the officer class, NCOs and the men of three of the home countries. It was a microcosm of the class system that existed back home.

It was something he had hoped to escape.

That time, before they again moved north to engage with the Boer armies, had a strange emptiness to it. North of them, seen dimly on the horizon, were the hills where it was expected that the Boer army was entrenched. It was only 10 or so miles, a reminder, a challenge to their manhood. The waiting was getting on their nerves, their language becoming more strident.

What are the bloody officers waiting for? asked Clem. Send out patrols, find out where the Boers are. They fiddled with that ruddy great balloon today. Why don’t they take the thing over them hills, see what the hell is going on over there?

The Boers will shoot it down.

They can keep out of range, just go straight up, see what’s going on, go east, go west, stay out of range. It makes no sense.

I dunno, maybe it can’t get high enough.

Then what’s the bloody use of it then, Fynn. Why bring it all this fucking way?

I dunno. Try to relax, Clem.

It’s just the waiting.

We all feel it. Making ourselves angry is not going to help us get ready for this coming battle. I’m taking a break.

He left his friends and walked out towards the edge of the camp, passing many small groups of soldiers sitting around outside their tents, probably all engaging in the same conversations, he thought. Finally he passed the last tent and walked out into the veld. There was more vegetation than in De Aar, but still sparse grassland dotted with small thorn trees, a dozen of them or so to the acre.

There was a man sitting in the grass facing north, smoking, and he turned on hearing the footfall and Fynn recognised Sergeant Gardiner.

You also tired of the bitching, Armstrong?

Yes, sergeant.

Come join me if you want.

Thanks.

Fynn sat next to him.

You got a pipe?

No.

Don’t have the habit?

We were crofters, sergeant, couldn’t afford it.

As he said that he thought of his father spending money on whisky. It was an unwelcome thought.

You can now.

Yeah, I suppose.

So, what are you lads talking about?

Fynn was not sure if he could say something that might sound like criticism of their officers.

We wonder what will happen next. It seems we are doing nothing.

There was a battle like this in Egypt, called Tel-el-Kebir. A frontal assault on entrenched enemy. This will follow that same victorious pattern. We will move up in a few days, start shelling the shit outa them hills, soften them up and then we will attack, start at night to get close enough when it gets light enough to see.

But we don’t know where they are.

They will get that all worked out before we go in, send in patrols, ride around them, scope the land.

They will do that?

Oh, yes, they will do that.

Why not use the balloon?

I suppose the wind’s coming from the wrong direction.

Fynn knew there was little wind in the mornings, but he would not argue further, not enjoying a conclusion that the officers had not done enough reconnoitring.

Have you served under the general before, sergeant?

Yes, Wauchope is a good man.

But he would have to follow what Lord Methuen tells him to do, not so?

That’s the way it works, laddie. Don’t worry, they done this many a time before.

But not against the Boers.

Don’t you worry, they’ll sort them out.

*

Yet he did.

As the days dragged, going into the second week since the battle for the Modder River, Fynn could not help thinking the officers were not doing enough to find the precise location of the Boer forces. It seemed to him they were arrogant in their belief they would easily overrun an army of farmers.

He thought of lying on the side of that hill looking at that farmhouse near De Aar and how he had waited and waited until he was sure, not wanting to get anyone killed because he hadn’t tried hard enough.

Surely his generals would have the same regard for their troops?

It was a relief when the camp was finally struck, eleven days after the battle of the Modder, and they started up that railway track towards those distant hills and Kimberley beyond. There was relief to be on the go, but little belief that they knew the disposition and location of the enemy.

Chapter 4

Late on the afternoon of December the 10th, 12 days after the battle of Modder River, the British artillery started shelling the hills three miles away to their north. The engagement included all of the artillery guns, 24 of them, and the 4.7inch naval gun.

The troops, bivouacked in the same location abreast the railway line, had their eardrums battered by the continuous hour and forty minutes of firing, but they did not complain, hopeful that the barrage of exploding shells would have done their job for them the next day. It was hard for them to imagine anything living in that bombardment of hell.

They were not to know that the shells exploding on those hills caused hardly any damage to the Boers entrenched forward of the hills. If anything, its only result was to warn them of the likelihood of an attack the next morning.

What was to come was to be a tragedy born of arrogance and self-belief of the worst kind. And the main assault force was going to be the four Highlander Regiments with the