Free Fire Across the Veldt by John Wilcox Page A

enquired.
    ‘Two men dead and four wounded, one of them badly, I fear.’ The drawl was still languid, although perspiration was slipping down the major’s forehead as he lay, his revolver poking round the side of an anthill. ‘Pity we’ve lost our regimental sergeant major, though, Colonel, don’t you think?’
    Fonthill nodded his head. He recognised the comment for what it was, an implied rebuke. But he did not rise to the criticism. ‘Jenkins will be back,’ he said, ‘and hopefully bringing fresh meat for dinner when we’ve sent this lot riding back from where they came. But it will be hard work until then. The point is that although I estimate that we are facing a whole commando out there and we are outnumbered, the Boers cannot afford to take heavy casualties. So far in this war they have avoided this whenever they could. So once they see we are determined and have plenty of ammunition, I believe they will ride off.’
    ‘Well, I hope you are right, sir. But we are not exactly in a good position, I fear. Not too much cover, don’t you know. They can pick us off.’
    Fonthill glanced around. ‘Hmm. Can’t see a better position that we can move to, under this fire. And I don’t see anyone riding to ouraid. So we will just have to stick it out. My feeling is that the Boers might try just once to rush us – they’re not exactly bayonet men, remember – and then ride off when they fail. So we must try and preserve our ammunition until then. We won’t be here all day.’
    In fact, Simon was far less sanguine than he sounded. With eight men dead and eleven wounded, his force had already been severely reduced. To be pinned down on the open veldt behind inadequate cover and under fire from the finest marksmen in the world was not exactly the best way to exercise his untested men. The longer this situation lasted the more his force would be eroded by the enemy fire. He did a quick estimation. Perhaps they could hold out for a couple of hours more, but it all depended upon how long the ammunition lasted. He had ordered that each man should ride with at least fifty rounds, but Hammond did not sound at all sure that this order had been carried out. And where the hell were Jenkins and Mzingeli? He grabbed his field glasses and raised his head to risk a quick scan of the kopje and surrounding veldt. Nothing. Had they been taken by the Boers? His heart sank at the thought. Then he shook his head. Not Jenkins. He was indestructible.
    A second thought struck him. He had not given a thought to the native trackers he had sent out as scouts. They would surely have encountered the commando, or at least seen evidence of their presence on the veldt. It would be difficult to hide the tracks of two hundred men or more. He was thankful that he had resisted the impulse to arm the trackers, for, if they were taken, the Boers would surely shoot them. But would the enemy recognise their ponies as being Boer mounts originally? That could well be the signal for executions. Well, he had other things to worry about for the moment.
    Fonthill crawled back to where the depleted B Squadron were lying, reasoning that this was the weakest section in the ring. He found a declivity in the ground, nestled his rifle stock to his cheek and sighted along the barrel. The Boers, of course, were using smokeless ammunition, as they had done since virtually the beginning of the war. As a result, it was incredibly difficult to pick them out, so good were they at maximising whatever cover the veldt could offer. Then he saw a small black object move about a hundred and fifty yards ahead. He fired but had no idea if the shot had found a target, for he had to duck his head quickly as several answering bullets hissed over his hat.
    Would the Boers try and rush them? That’s what British troops would do. But then the soldiers of the Queen were trained to use the bayonet …
    As if on cue, he heard a guttural command in Afrikaans and then the Boers rose from