Have been driven
home so often during the war, that even our hidebound conservatism
can hardly resist them.
Lyttelton's Brigade, then, held Vaalkranz; and from three parts of
the compass there came big shells and little shells, with a
constant shower of long-range rifle bullets. Behind them, and as
useful as if it had been on Woolwich Common, there was drawn up an
imposing mass of men, two infantry divisions, and two brigades of
cavalry, all straining at the leash, prepared to shed their blood
until the spruits ran red with it, if only they could win their way
to where their half-starved comrades waited for them. But nothing
happened. Hours passed and nothing happened. An occasional shell
from the big gun plumped among them. One, through some freak of
gunnery, lobbed slowly through a division, and the men whooped and
threw their caps at it as it passed. The guns on Swartz Kop, at a
range of nearly five miles, tossed shells at the monster on
Doornkloof, and finally blew up his powder magazine amid the
applause of the infantry. For the army it was a picnic and a
spectacle.
But it was otherwise with the men up on Vaalkranz. In spite of
sangar and trench, that cross fire was finding them out; and no
feint or demonstration on either side came to draw the concentrated
fire from their position.
