This Done, They Would Again Sink Back And Each
Would Sit Leaning His Head Against His Musket, Or With His Forehead
Resting Heavily On His Folded Arms.
In comparison the relieving
column looked like giants as they came in with a swinging swagger,
their uniforms blackened with mud and sweat and bloodstains, their
faces brilliantly crimsoned and blistered and tanned by the dust and
sun.
They made a picture of strength and health and aggressiveness.
Perhaps the contrast was strongest when the battalion of the Devons
that had been on foreign service passed the "reserve" battalion which
had come from England. The men of the two battalions had parted five
years before in India, and they met again in Ladysmith, with the men
of one battalion lining the streets, sick, hungry, and yellow, and
the others, who had been fighting six weeks to reach it, marching
toward them, robust, red-faced, and cheering mightily. As they met
they gave a shout of recognition, and the men broke ranks and ran
forward, calling each other by name, embracing, shaking hands, and
punching each other in the back and shoulders. It was a sight that
very few men watched unmoved. Indeed, the whole three hours was one
of the most brutal assaults upon the feelings that it has been my lot
to endure. One felt he had been entirely lifted out of the politics
of the war, and the question of the wrongs of the Boers disappeared
before a simple propostiton of brave men saluting brave men.
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