29 July 2005

Don't Mess With Zambia, Baby!



UK terror suspect held in Zambia


A Briton has reportedly been arrested in Zambia over allegations he was involved in planning a US terror camp.
Haroon Rashid Aswat, of West Yorkshire, was held in the border town of Livingstone after entering the country from Zimbabwe, Zambian officials said.

The Foreign Office said it was seeking access to a British national reportedly in custody, but did not name him. Counter-terrorism officials dismissed reports he was wanted for questioning over the 7 July London bombings.
Just for fun, checkout my Zim-Zam border crossing story in July's Archives. On the Zambian side, the biggest babboon I saw the whole time in the customs yard....

28 July 2005

Guns of Brixton

Brother Winston
Okay, so let’s agree about the price
An’ make it one jet airliner for ten prisoners
And boats and tanks and planes, it's your game
Kings and Queens and Generals, learn your name
I see the innocents, the human sacrifice
And if death comes so cheap, then the same goes for life


"OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!"
--Brother Rudyard Kipling

25 July 2005

The Deer Hunter



"So I see the rack on this ten point buck, okay. I kid you not, John, it was this big. I had my .223, with the Leupold scope. I barely had time to open my thermos--first morning--when out he comes. Majestic. I'm seein' this guy on my wall at the Capitol wearing my NOW cap. It just doesn't get any better than that, lemme tell you, John-o! So I says to Boxer, I says, "One shot, Barbie, one shot."

24 July 2005

Where's Billy Zoom When You Need Him?


"There is only one basic human right, the right to do as you damn well please. And with it comes the only basic human duty, the duty to take the consequences."
--P.J.,Duke of Akron

Henry LoConti Sr. opened the first Agora on February 27, 1966. A fire at The Cleveland Agora on 24 th Street in late 1984 spurred the move to the current location at 5000 Euclid Ave the following year. The Agora officially re-opened their doors in late 1985 and has been going strong ever since. No longer a dance club for college students, the Agora grew to become one of the premiere venues in the country to see new and established acts.

23 July 2005

Do Not Run From 'Bobby' Peel!



It is the common fate of the indolent to see their rights become a prey to the active. The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance; which condition if he break, servitude is at once the consequence of his crime and the punishment of his guilt."—John Philpot Curran: Speech upon the Right of Election, 1790.

76 Nieblungs Led the Big Parade!

21 July 2005

Gang Aft Aglay: On the Metro


The Tomb of Robert Burns, d. 21 VII 1796

EPITAPH
Consigned to earth, here rests the lifeless clay,
Which once a vital spark from Heaven inspired;
The lamp of genius shone full bright as day,
Then left the world to mourn its light retired.
While beams that splendid orb which lights the spheres
While mountain streams descend to swell the main--
While changeful seasons mark the rolling years—
Thy fame, 0 Burns, let Scotia still retain!

20 July 2005

The Playing Fields of Giggleswick



"In Victorian England, moral principles were as much a part of public discourse as of private discourse, and as much a part of social policy as of personal life. Every measure of poor relief, for example, had to justify itself by showing that it would promote the moral as well as the material well-being of the poor -- and not only of the pauper receiving relief but of the independent laboring poor as well. In recent times we have so completely rejected any kind of moral principle that we have deliberately, systematically divorced poor relief from moral sanctions and incentives. We are now confronting the consequences of this policy. Having made the most valiant attempt to see the problem of poverty as the product of impersonal economic and social forces, we are now discovering that the economic and social aspects are inseparable from the moral and personal ones."
--Gertrude Himmelfarb, “From Victorian Virtues to Modern Values,” Bradley Lecture. http://www.taemag.com/issues/articleID.16874/article_detail.aspa

18 July 2005

The World Is Flat


THE WORLD IS FLAT
A Brief History of the Twenty-First Century.
By Thomas L. Friedman.
488 pp. Farrar, Straus & Giroux. $27.50.
(click subject to hear Friedman on CSPAN)
"The ultimate challenge for America -- and for Americans -- is whether we are prepared for this flat world, economic and political. While hierarchies are being eroded and playing fields leveled as other countries and people rise in importance and ambition, are we conducting ourselves in a way that will succeed in this new atmosphere? Or will it turn out that, having globalized the world, the United States had forgotten to globalize itself?"--Fareed Zakaria, NYT, May 2005

Goofy?!



"Louella Parsons might do it, but she looks far too young."--Noel Coward at The Desert Inn

16 July 2005

What the Spanish call 'Duende'



(above)Jake Presses a Button on Dauthuille
(With all due respect to my learned colleague from the Land of Lincolns, who comments below...On Hilary Swank's behalf, I have two words concerning gender and boxing movies: Cathy Moriarity.)

Duende means something like 'the true spirit of the thing' or 'heart' or 'authenticity'. As with "Baby," the last time I felt that duende in art was in a song. Out of nowhere, on Radio Ulster I heard a cover of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song": "Pirates yes dey rob I down to the merchant ship/Minutes I after I look I into the bottomless pit.../Won't you help me sing these songs of freedom/They're all I ever had, redemption songs." It take dumptruck sized dreadlocks to cover that. Not only were the vocals scratchy and dialect sung as written, but it was like running your hand over a scar to listen to.

The singers covering Marley were Johnny Cash and Joe Strummer. The late and dead at 53 from natural causes Joe Strummer from The Clash. As in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I heard the first chords and knew it was Marley's inspiration. I heard the old, old voice of Johnny Cash and knew it was Gospel music. I heard Joe Strummer, who took me through 20 plus years of good and bad times, and I sat down to hang my head.

Now, here is contrition for a guy who drinks a toast to King Billy each July 1...In Morgan Freeman's narration he says, "Boxing is all about respect. Earning respect with your guts and taking the other guy's away from him entirely." Pound for pound, Raging Bull punches its weight. But this flick has duende like chain lightning, from Eastwood to Freeman to Cash to Strummer the whole way across the vault of heaven and back again.

Tommy D....as an outward, visible sign of conversion to this flick, I'll stop wearing Orange on March 17--and I'll take Columbus Day off work. So, paisan, here's to the Sweet FA! La Dolce Farniente!

Question: The Best Boxing Movie Ever Made?




"In boxing, everything is backwards."

Answer: Hands down, going away. Yes, it is about a chick boxing. Keep that chip on your shoulder, and settle in for an emotional pummelling.

13 July 2005

A Last Letter to Theo


"Then go write a letter to my grey-haired mother,
An' tell her the cowboy that she loved has gone.
But please not one word of the man who had killed me.
Don't mention his name and his name will pass on."


Dear Theo,
I doubt we have very much in common except for what freemasonry calls the brotherhood of men. Reuters reported what your killer pronounced in court today. I have an 8X10 of that photo above on the wall next to the bed. A man needs an edge, and right now mine is well-honed. I wake up to look at that photo to remember that--like the Man in Black--we should all be indignant, pissed off, and angry to death at the injustice of the day. It's not a brand new emotion.

"There is nothing new under the sun," the Preacher said, "Vanity of Vanities." In the Hebrew tradition and downtown Smithfield, North Carolina, we call that 'Wisdom.'
Wisdom that one spends a lifetime reconciling and wrestling. Today, Theo, I don't feel significantly reconciled to the world. But that is not my job. It's been done.

My native orneriness would assume that being Dutch, you were some type of old-school, lowland, unreconstituted Atheist. That, baby, is why they call it Wisdom: if we could puzzle out the paradoxes, you would still be doing what you do. An unfortunate comparison in the press put you in the same sentence with 'big-boned'American documentary filmmaker. Were you still doing what you do (in some anabaptist, Rieperbahn, hash smoking cliche), I would be bitching about it.

I write today, Theo, to point out a line of language. Deconstruct it; fashion of it an ontology, slip inside the eternal groove between sound and sense. Don't mention his name and his name will pass on. Johnny and I and every xenophobic, American shorthair who knows his ass from his elbow, stand shoulder to shoulder for a chorus of "The Streets of Laredo" facing that courtroom with one finger on each hand up.

In the beginning was the Word, and in the end the word on a page is the only Balm of Gilead I have in the saddlebag.

I knew your name, because it called up an image of a tree in my mind, Theo Van Gogh. It reminded me of letters, correspondence. Don't mention his name and his name will pass on I sat still to read the words from the courtroom, but I did not remark for one heartbeat the man who said them, to your 'gray-haired mother' (if you want some American schmaltz). Right now I am full up to here with names pronounceable and unpronounceable from history and news of the world. I would need wings to get above the detritus of the names of killers to whom we cede dignity wrongly by even writing their designated handles in any form of symbol.

As far as I'm concerned, the deconstructed void--your aporia or a lacuna--swallows up those names if we never report, remark, remember or rewrite them. So Sweet F**A** to your judicial system who made certain that your killer could never vote again, Theo, or hold public office. Well, Radical she-ite, man: not outside the walls of the polis!? Formerly, we sat hunkered down against the wall of anything civilized, blind Tiresias pointing Antigone in the right direction solely by the stench of a rotten corpse.

You don't have to be the Preacher or Johnny Cash or Tiresias to catch the whiff of a rot that started your lowland, Theo. Smells like the Somme. Or maybe in the London tubestation at midnight, it smells like the long spent breath of some last pronounced word. That's all going away. In Harare or Portadown or Netanya or Basra, we will back to rocks and clubs (then fists) soon enough. Let Be be the finale of Seem. A dying cowboy knew well-enough how to consign a killer to nameless nothingness. Le neant, Theo. Back in the day, someone wrote that "God was the silent answer to the Last Question."

I believe that. I believe it when the Preacher writes it or Johnny sings it or I proclaim. But right now, I am either the dying young cowboy or his narrator, the keeper of his memory, the light to the darkness that rots in the heart of this age. I'm with the Dance Hall maidens in spirit for you, Theo. Consider that Johnny and I are tanking up on Stella Artois and walking out into that dark, dusty street to piss on the grave of every nameless son-of-a-bitch who got us where we are today.

12 July 2005

"Songs to Survive the Summer"



Jordan
It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm
around Jordan's golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to
dinner. Suddenly I wasn't thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of
this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and
who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began
to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: "There are only the
pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."

"And Daisy ought to have something in her life," murmured Jordan to me.

There Once Was a Wyfe from Bathe


'A cap like a hat
(Which was once a cravat)
Part gracefully plaited and pin'd is,
Part stuck upon gauze,
Resembles macaws
And all the fine birds of the Indies.

But above all the rest,
A bold Amazon's crest
Waves nodding from shoulder to shoulder;
At once to surprise
And to ravish all eyes
To frighten and charm the beholder.

In short, head and feather,
And wig altogether,
With wonder and joy would delight ye;
Like the picture I've seen
Of th' adorable queen
Of the beautiful bless'd Otaheite.

Yet Miss at the Rooms
Must beware of her plumes,
For if Vulcan her feather embraces,
Like poor Lady Laycock,
She'd burn like a haycock,
And roast all the Loves and the Graces.'

from The New Bath Guide. Cardiff: U Llanelli Press. 1776.

11 July 2005

A Missive to the Purple Grackles


Quilty's Corner

Ora Pro Nobis

When I was just a boy and men were men...E Costello



Mr. Sheppard:
I admire your website very much. That being said, I do not wish to shoot the messenger. As an American priest, I wish to communicate my strong conviction in the wake of the Windsor Report and this Synod's vote concerning lady bishops.

Until this doddering and politically correct generation of baby-boom bishops have retired, let us have a moratorium concerning such matters of conscience.

One might imagine that the bishops' apostolic calling would compel them to add to the spiritual well-being of the UK's grieving Christians. Instead, we see the bishops acting in their business as usual manner, loudly making shards and shrapnel of Anglican unity.

10 July 2005

Bobby Mugabe and Auctoritas




"...and where it's going, no one knows..." N. Lowe

I understand that casually stretching and taking that photo on my way into Zimbabwe was not a good idea. My buddy was haggling with the Visa people; I was chatting with the nephew of the Mikune chief, a former game warden. Bobby had declared the second or third salvo about 'humanitarian workers,' in late summer 2004. But I didn't have any identification as a hunger worker, and I seemed to be doing a good job at big, dumb, and affable.

(The border security, 'privately contracted' wear uniforms that read 'Auctoritas.' All the more allegorical path to make our second or third pass through Zimbabwe. No question mark or other query punctuated the name, like "Quid Auctoritas?". Passing outside towns we saw fringe lines of trainees in mufti on the side of the road, being trained in the shade. They stood at attention or sat or slouched against a tree.)

Minor, private statements of rebellion can be wonderfully satisfying. Plus the two Ugliest Americans ever minted were in the van, too. When the Auctoritas official asked me to step back out of the cab, I explained that I had been taking a picture of their wonderful national Crest. "What kind of bird is that? Right, up there." No, I hadn't 'taken a picture through' of the men with the Kalashnikovs. I had to step back to see his sunglasses. From my vantage I saw only 'Auctoritas' and a shiny black brim. Really cheap technology offers great things like panoramic settings that let you get the undercarriage inspection port, too. I have gotten by on height and whimsy with auctoritas most of my life. Quid? Quod? I have those answers, but the world seems much less interested.

In Out of America, Keith Richburg points out that when taking a chance or dodging a bribe, the bigger the lie the better. It wasn't plausibility, but scope. I learned this ex post facto, from the Joburg bookstore, about Auctoritas. The old saying in the church is that 'it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission.' Since the question about the Anglican Communion and Africa has been 'Quid Auctoritas?' I felt on my home pitch.

The story is downhill from here. He wanted my camera. Or money. I had the shotgun seat to ward off the vertigo that has me sidelined entirely now, but which presented another kind of calculated fib and bluff that late summer. The real joy of the trip was being myself, having said good-bye to all that I left behind. A vehement suspension of belief and disbelief, going overboard like poor Pip off the Pequod. Jacob liked the bluff. He liked 50 Cent, too, so we debated the relative merits of Eminem and other world-clashing correlates from Zambia to Botswana.

I presumed Auctoritas was a leftover Rhodesian affectation, but I was wrong. Since then, Bobby Mugabe has been daily in mind and omnipresent in the news. That night, I flexed my Zim dollars on Zimbabwe Cricket jerseys and Castles, water over the falls. But that's for a different time.


Yes, He Has No Bananas
by Joe-Bob Briggs

What possessed Robert Mugabe to start wearing the wispy little Hitlerian mustache? Fortunately, he has the big saucer eyeglasses and the statesmanlike receding hairline to announce his grandfatherly intentions. We could send over the cast of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" to straighten him out, but unfortunately, the entire cast would be seized and imprisoned for ten years as soon as they set foot in Zimbabwe, under Mugabe's "worse than dogs or pigs" statutes. Mugabe used these laws to throw Zimbabwe's ex-president, Canaan Banana, into prison, claiming all gays contribute to the aids crisis (highest infection rate in the world; 20 percent of the Zimbabwean population; 2,000 dying each week). Besides having a name that sounds like someone who would march in the Gay Pride Parade, Mr. Banana had been caught in flagrante aardvarko, and so the dignity of the state was at risk.

Robert Mugabe must get a lot of email from the Pope. As the last great Roman Catholic dictator, Mugabe can't risk the confessional in a nation full of spies and enemies and vengeance-seeking widows, so I would imagine he improvises. He uses the old "enemies of the state" stratagem. There were those who said that Canaan Banana--sorry, I can't help repeating the name--was simply a political enemy who was conveniently removed when he misused his banana. But normally, Mugabe is not shy about simply saying, "He's a traitor." Virtually none of the traitors are traitors in the Western sense. They are traitors only under the narrow definition of failing to support the Zimbabwe African National Union-Popular Front Party. (And doesn't that just trip nicely off the tongue? It must be hell at outdoor rallies. "All together now: Zimbabwe African National Union-Popular Front Forever! Okay, again! Zimbabwe African...")

At any rate, Mugabe's willingness to designate virtually anyone, including the official weather forecaster, as an enemy of the state, is a fairly common occupational quirk among despots both ancient and modern. In Mugabe's case, it's a self-deception, but I think it's an honest self-deception. He really does think that any enemy of him personally is an enemy of Zimbabwe. After all, he has all those United Nations citations to prove that he's a good guy, doing the best he can.

I think it's important to Mugabe to be remembered as a good guy. He's eighty years old and has so many ailments (cancer of the throat, cancer of the prostate, at least one stroke) that he must know he's dying, and yet he holds onto power like a possessed man. (Somehow you can't imagine Mugabe taking one of those Boston University retired-dictator-in-residence gigs.) He's reached the stage that corresponds to the last three years of Ivan the Terrible's life, when suddenly Ivan decided he needed to find the names of every single person he had ever killed, take them to a church, and have a priest read them out and bless them. This was a considerable undertaking, requiring thousands of bureaucrats inquiring in hundreds of places. Ivan, like Mugabe, was a religious man, and he sensed a reckoning.

What's odd in Mugabe's case is that while he's cracking up, he's also still cracking down

09 July 2005

Of Charterhouse and Mafeking





"Never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense."--WLSC
(also pictured above)Col. Baden-Powell

The Siege of Mafeking
From: Arthur Conan Doyle,
The Great Boer War: A Two-Years' Record, 1899-1901.
London, Smith, Elder & Co., 1901


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXIV:

THIS small place, which sprang in the course of a few weeks from obscurity to fame, is situated upon the long line of railway which connects Kimberley in the south with Rhodesia in the north. In character it resembles one of those western American townlets which possess small present assets but immense aspirations. In its litter of corrugated iron roofs, and in the church and the racecourse, which are the first-fruits everywhere of Anglo-Celtic civilisation, one Sees the seeds of the great city of the future. It is the obvious depot for the western Transvaal upon one side, and the starting-point for all attempts upon the Kalahari Desert upon the other. The Transvaal border runs within a few miles.

It is not clear why the imperial authorities should desire to hold this place, since it has no natural advantages to help the defence, but lies exposed in a widespread plain. A glance at the map must show that the railway line would surely be cut both to the north and south of the town, and the garrison isolated at a point some two hundred and fifty miles from any reinforcements. Considering that the Boers could throw any strength of men or guns against the place '. it seemed certain that if they seriously desired to take possession of it they could do so. Under ordinary circumstances any force shut up there was doomed to capture. But that may have seemed short-sighted policy became the highest wisdom, owing to the extraordinary tenacity and resource of Baden-Powell, the officer in command. Through his exertions the town acted as a bait to the Boers, and occupied a considerable force in a useless Siege at a time when their presence at other seats of war might have proved disastrous to the British cause.

Colonel Baden-Powell is a soldier of a type which is exceedingly popular with the British public. A skilled hunter and an expert at many games, there 'was always something of the sportsman in his keen appreciation of war. In the Matabele campaign he had out-scouted the Savage scouts and found his pleasure in tracking them among their native mountains, often alone and at night, trusting to his skill in springing from rock to rock in his rubber-soled shoes to save him from their pursuit. There; was a brain quality in his bravery which is rare among our officers. Full of veldt craft and resource, it was as difficult to outwit as it was to outfight him. But there was another curious side to his complex nature. The French have said of one of their heroes, "Il avait cette graine de folie dans sa bravoure que les Francais aiment," and the words might have been written of Powell. An impish humour broke out in him, and the mischievous schoolboy alternated with the warrior and the administrator. He met the Boer commandos with chaff and jokes which were as disconcerting as his wire entanglements and his rifle-pits The amazing variety of his personal accomplishments was one of his most striking characteristics. From drawing caricatures with both hands simultaneously, or skirt dancing to leading a forlorn hope, nothing came amiss to him; and he had that magnetic quality by which the leader imparts something of his virtues to his men. Such was the man who held Mafeking for the Queen.

In a very early stage, before the formal declaration of war, the enemy had massed several commandos upon the western border, the men being drawn from Zeerust, Rustenburg, and Lichtenburg. Baden-Powell, with the aid of an excellent group of special officers, who included Colonel Gould Adams, Lord Edward Cecil, the soldier son of England's Premier, and Colonel Hore, had done all that was possible to put the place into a state of defence. In this he had immense assistance from Benjamin Weil, a well known South African contractor, who had shown great energy in provisioning the town. On the other hand, the South African Government displayed the same stupidity or treason which had been exhibited in the case of Kimberley, and had met all demands for guns and reinforcements with foolish doubts as to the need of such precautions. In the endeavour to supply these pressing wants the first small disaster of the campaign was encountered. On October 12th, the day after the declaration of war, an armoured train conveying two 7-pounders for the Mafeking defences was derailed and captured by a Boor raiding party at Kraaipan, a place forty miles south of their destination. The enemy shelled the shattered train until after five hours Captain Nesbitt, who was in command, and his men, some twenty in number, surrendered. It was a small affair, but it derived importance from being the first blood shed and the first tactical success of the war. The garrison of the town, whose fame will certainly live in the history of South Africa, contained no regular soldiers at all with the exception of the small group of excellent officers. They consisted of irregular troops, three hundred and forty of the Protectorate Regiment, one hundred and seventy Police, and two hundred volunteers, made up of that singular mixture of adventurers, younger sons, broken gentlemen, and irresponsible sportsmen who have always been the voortrekkers of the British Empire. These men were of the same stamp as those other admirable bodies of natural fighters who did so well in Rhodesia, in Natal, and in the Cape. With them there was associated in the defence the Town Guard, who included the able-bodied shopkeepers, business men, and residents, the whole amounting to about nine hundred men. Their artillery was feeble in the extreme, two 7-pounder toy guns and six machine guns, but the spirit of the men and the resource of their leaders made up for every disadvantage. Colonel Vyvyan and Major Panzera planned the defences, and the little trading town soon began to take on the appearance of a fortress.

On October 13th the Boers appeared before Mafeking. On the same day Colonel Baden-Powell sent two truckloads of dynamite out of the place. They were fired into by the invaders, with the result that they exploded. On October 14th the pickets around the town were driven in by the Boers. On this the armoured train and a squadron of the Protectorate Regiment went out to support the pickets and drove the Boers before them. A body of the latter doubled back and interposed between the British and Mafeking, but two fresh troops with a 7-pounder throwing shrapnel drove them off. In this spirited little action the garrison lost two killed and fourteen wounded, but they inflicted considerable damage on the enemy. To Captain Williams, Captain Fitz-Clarence, and Lord Charles Bentinck great credit is due for the way in which they handled their men; but the whole affair was ill advised, for if a disaster had occurred Mafeking must have fallen, being left without a garrison. No possible results which could come from such a sortie could justify the risk which was run.

On October 16th the siege began in earnest. On that date the Boers brought up two 12-pounder guns, and the first of that interminable :flight of shells fell into the town. The enemy got possession of the water supply, but the garrison bad already dug wells. Before October 20th five thousand Boers, under the formidable Cronje, had gathered round the town. "Surrender to avoid bloodshed" was his message. "When is the bloodshed going to begin?" asked Powell. When the Boers had been shelling the town for some weeks the lighthearted Colonel sent out to say that if they went on any longer be should be compelled to regard it as equivalent to a declaration of war. It is to be hoped that Cronje also possessed some sense of humour, or else be must have been as sorely puzzled by his eccentric opponent as the Spanish generals were by the vagaries of Lord Peterborough.

Among the many difficulties which had to be met by the defenders of the town the most serious was the fact that the position had a circumference of five or six miles to be held by about one thousand men against a force who at their own time and their own place could at any moment attempt to gain a footing. An ingenious system of small forts was devised to meet the situation. Each of those held from ten to forty riflemen, and was furnished with bomb-proofs and covered ways. The central bomb-proof was connected by telephone with all the outlying ones, so as to save the use of orderlies. A system of bells was arranged by which each quarter of the town was warned when a shell was coming in time to enable the inhabitants to scuttle off to shelter. Every detail showed the ingenuity of the controlling mind. The armoured train, painted green and tied round with scrub, stood unperceived among the clumps of bushes which surrounded the town.

On October 24th a savage bombardment commenced, which lasted with intermissions for seven months. The Boers had brought an enormous gun across from Pretoria, throwing a 96-lb. shell, and this, with many smaller pieces, played upon the town. The result was as futile as our own artillery fire has so often been when directed against the Boers.

As the Mafeking guns were too weak to answer the enemy's fire, the only possible reply lay in a sortie, and upon this Colonel Powell decided. It was carried out with great gallantry on the evening of October 27th, when about a hundred men under Captain FitzClarence moved out against the Boer trenches with instructions to use the bayonet only. The position was carried with a rush, and many of the Boers bayoneted before they could disengage themselves from the tarpaulins which covered them. The trenches behind fired wildly in the darkness, and it is probable that as many of their own men as of ours were hit by their rifle fire. The total loss in this gallant affair was six killed, eleven wounded, and two prisoners. The loss of the enemy, though shrouded as usual in darkness, was certainly very much higher.

On October 31st the Boers ventured upon an attack on Cannon Kopje, which is a small fort and eminence to the south of the town. It was defended by Colonel Walford, of the British South African Police, with fifty-seven of his men and three small guns. The attack was repelled with heavy loss to the Boers. The British casualties were six killed and five wounded.

Their experience in this attack seems to have determined the Boers to make no further expensive attempts to rush the town, and for some weeks the siege degenerated into a blockade. Cronje had been recalled for more important work, and Commandant Snyman had taken over the uncompleted task. From time to time the great gun tossed its huge shells into the town, but boardwood walls and corrugated iron roofs minimise the dangers of a bombardment. On November 3rd the garrison rushed the Brickfields, which had been held by the enemy's sharpshooters, and on the 7th another small sally kept the game going. On the 18th Powell sent a message to Snyman that he could not take the town by Bitting and looking at it. At the same time he dispatched a message to the Boer forces generally, advising them to return to their homes and their families. Some of the commandos had gone south to assist Cronje in his stand against Methuen, and the siege languished more and more, until it was woken up by a desperate sortie on December 26th, which caused the greatest loss which the garrison had sustained. Once more the lesson was to be enforced that with modern weapons and equality of forces it is always long odds on the defence.

On this date a vigorous attack was made upon one of the Boer forts on the north. There seems to be little doubt that the enemy had some inkling of our intention, as the fort was found to have been so strengthened as to be impregnable without scaling ladders. The attacking force consisted of two squadrons of the Protectorate Regiment and one of the Bechuanaland Rifles, backed up by three guns. So desperate was the onslaught that of the actual attacking party–a forlorn hope, if ever there was one–fifty-three out of eighty were killed and wounded, twenty-five of the former and twenty-eight of the latter. Several of that gallant band of officers who had been the soul of the defence were among the injured. Captain Fitz-Clarence was wounded, Vernon, Sandford, and Paton were killed, all at the very muzzles of the enemy's guns. it must have been one of the bitterest moments of Baden-Powell's life when he shut his field-glass and said, 'Let the ambulance go out!'

Even this heavy blow did not damp the spirits nor diminish the energies of the defence, though it must have warned Baden-Powell that he could not afford to drain his small force by any more expensive attempts at the offensive, and that from then onwards he must content himself by holding grimly on until Plumer from the north or Methuen from the south should at last be able to stretch out to him a helping hand. Vigilant and indomitable, throwing away no possible point in the game which he was playing, the new year found him and his hardy garrison sternly determined to keep the flag flying.

January and February offer in their records that monotony of excitement which is the fate of every besieged town. On one day the shelling was a little more, on another a little less. Sometimes they escaped scatheless, sometimes the garrison found itself the poorer by the loss of Captain Girdwood or Trooper Webb or some other gallant soldier. Occasionally they had their little triumph when a too curious Dutchman, peering for an instant from his cover to see the effect of his shot, was carried back in the ambulance to the laager. On Sunday a truce was usually observed, and the snipers who had exchanged rifle-shots all the week met occasionally on that day with good-humoured chaff. Snyman, the Boer General, showed none of that chivalry at Mafeking which distinguished the gallant old Joubert at Ladysmith. Not only was there no neutral camp for women or sick, but it is beyond all doubt or question that the Boer guns were deliberately turned upon the women's quarters inside Mafeking in order to bring pressure upon the inhabitants. Many women and children were sacrificed to this brutal policy, which must in fairness be set to the account of the savage leader, and not of the rough but kindly folk with whom we were fighting. In every race there are individual ruffians, and it would be a political mistake to allow our action to be influenced or our feelings permanently embittered by their crimes. It is from the man himself, and not from his country, that an account should be exacted.

The garrison, in the face of increasing losses and decreasing food, lost none of the high spirits which it reflected from its commander. The programme of a single day of jubilee–Heaven only knows what they had to hold jubilee over–shows a cricket match in the morning, sports in the afternoon, a concert in the evening, and a dance, given by the bachelor officers, to wind up. Baden-Powell himself seems to have descended from the eyrie from which, like a captain on the bridge, he rang bells and telephoned orders, to bring the house down with a comic song and a humorous recitation. The ball went admirably, save that there was an interval to repel an attack which disarranged the programme. Sports were zealously cultivated, and the grimy inhabitants. of casemates and trenches were pitted against each other at cricket or football (Sunday cricket so shocked Snyman that he threatened to fire upon it were continued).

The monotony was broken by the occasional visits of a postman, who appeared or vanished from the vast barren lands to the west of the town, which could not all be guarded by the besiegers. Sometimes a few words from home came to cheer the hearts of the exiles, and could be returned by the same uncertain and expensive means. The documents which found their way up were not always of an essential or even of a welcome character. At least one man received an unpaid bill from an angry tailor.

In one particular Mafeking had, with much smaller resources, rivalled Kimberley. An ordnance factory had been started, formed in the railway workshops, and conducted by Connely and Cloughlan, of the Locomotive Department. Daniels, of the police, supplemented their efforts by making both powder and fuses. The factory turned out shells, and eventually constructed a 5.5-in. smooth-bore gun, which threw a round shell with great accuracy to a considerable range. April found the garrison, in spite of all losses, as efficient and as resolute as it had been in October. So close were the advanced trenches upon either side that both parties had recourse to the old-fashioned hand grenades, thrown by the Boers, and cast on a fishing-line by ingenious Sergeant Page, of the Protectorate Regiment. Sometimes the besiegers and the number of guns diminished, forces being detached to prevent the advance of Plumer's relieving column from the north; but as those who remained held their forts, which it was beyond the power of the British to storm, the garrison was not much the better for the alleviation. Putting Mafeking for Ladysmith and Plumer for Buller, the situation was not unlike that which had existed in Natal.

At this point some account might be given of the doings of that northern force whose situation was so remote that even the ubiquitous correspondent hardly appears to have reached it. No doubt the book will eventually make up for the neglect of the journal, but some short facts may be given here of the Rhodesian column. Their action did not affect the course of the war, but they clung like bulldogs to a most difficult task, and eventually, when strengthened by the relieving column, made their way to Mafeking.

The force was originally raised for the purpose of defending Rhodesia, and it consisted of fine material pioneers, farmers, and miners from the great new land which had been added through the energy of Mr. Rhodes to the British Empire. Many of the men were veterans of the native wars, and all were imbued with a hardy and adventurous spirit. On the other hand, the men of the northern and western Transvaal, whom they were called upon to face, the burghers of Watersberg and Zoutpansberg, were tough frontiersmen living in a land where a dinner was shot, not bought. Shaggy, hairy, half-savage men, handling a rifle as a medieval Englishman handled a bow, and skilled in every wile of veldt craft, they were as formidable opponents as the world could show.

On the war breaking out the first thought of the leaders in Rhodesia was to save as much of the line which was their connection through Mafeking with the south as was possible. For this purpose an armoured train was dispatched only three days after the expiration of the ultimatum to the point four hundred miles south of Bulawayo, where the frontiers of the Transvaal and of Bechuanaland join. Colonel Holdsworth commanded the small British force. The Boers, a thousand or so in number, bad descended upon the railway, and an action followed in which the train appears to have bad better luck than has usually attended these ill-fated contrivances. The Boer commando was driven back and a number were killed. It was probably news of this affair, and not anything which had occurred at Mafeking, which caused those rumours of gloom at Pretoria very shortly after the outbreak of hostilities. An agency telegraphed that women were weeping in the streets of the Boer capital. We had not then realised how soon and how often we should see the same sight in Pall Mall.

The adventurous armour train pressed on as far as Lobatsi, where it found the bridges destroyed ; so it returned to its original position, having another brush with the Boer commandos, and again, in some marvellous way, escaping its obvious fate. From then until the new year the line was kept open by an admirable system of patrolling to within a hundred miles or so of Mafeking. An aggressive spirit and a power of dashing initiative were shown in the British operations at this side of the scene of war such as have too often been absent elsewhere. At Sekwani, on November 24th, a considerable success was gained by a surprise planned and carried out by Colonel Holdsworth. The Boer laager was approached and attacked in the early morning by a force of one hundred and twenty frontiersmen, and so effective was their fire that the Boers estimated their numbers at several thousand. Thirty Boers were killed or wounded, and the rest scattered.

While the railway line was held in this way there had been some skirmishing also on the northern frontier of the Transvaal. Shortly after the outbreak of the war the gallant Blackburn, scouting with six comrades in thick bush, found himself in the presence of a considerable commando. The British concealed themselves by the path, but Blackburn's foot was seen by a keen-eyed Kaffir, who pointed it out to his masters. A sudden volley riddled Blackburn with bullets ; but his men stayed by him and drove off the enemy. Blackburn dictated an official report of the action, and then died.

In the same region a small force under Captain Hare was cut off by a body of Boers. Of the twenty men most got away, but the chaplain J. W. Leary, Lieutenant Haserick (who behaved with admirable gallantry), and six men were taken. (Mr. Leary was wounded in the foot by a shell. The German artillerist entered the hut in which he lay. "Here's a bit of your work!" said Leary good-humouredly. "I wish it had been worse," said the amiable German gunner).

The commando which attacked this party, and on the same day Colonel Spreckley's force, was a powerful one, with several guns. No doubt it was organised because there were fears among the Boers that they would be invaded from the north. When it was understood that the British intended no large aggressive movement in that quarter, these burghers joined other commandos. Sarel Eloff, who was one of the leaders of this northern force, was afterwards taken at Mafeking.

Colonel Plumer had taken command of the small army which was now operating from the north along the railway line with Mafeking for its objective. Plumer is an officer of considerable experience in African warfare, a small, quiet, resolute man, with a knack of gently enforcing discipline upon the very rough material with which he had to deal. With his weak force–which never exceeded a thousand men, and was usually from six to seven hundred-he had to keep the long line behind him open, build up the rained railway in front of him and gradually creep onwards in face of a formidable and enterprising enemy. For a long time Gaberones, which is eighty miles north of Mafeking, remained his headquarters, and thence he kept up precarious communications with the besieged garrison. In the middle of March he advanced as far south as Lobatsi, which is less than fifty miles from Mafeking; but the enemy proved to be too strong, and Plumer had to drop back again with some loss to his original position at Gaberones. Sticking doggedly to his task, Plumer again came south, and this time made his way as far as Ramathlabama, within a day's march of Mafeking. He had with him, however, only three hundred and fifty men, and had he pushed through the effect might have been an addition of hungry men to the garrison. The relieving force was fiercely attacked, however, by the Boers and driven back on to their camp with a loss of twelve killed, twenty-six wounded, and fourteen missing. Some of the British were dismounted men, and it says much for Plumer's conduct of the fight that he was able to extricate these safely from the midst of an aggressive mounted enemy. Personally he set an admirable example, sending away his own horse, and walking with his rearmost soldiers. Captain Crewe Robertson and Lieutenant Milligan, the famous Yorkshire cricketer, were killed, and Rolt, Jarvis, Maclaren, and Plumer himself were wounded. The Rhodesian force withdrew again to near Lobatsi, and collected itself for yet another effort.

In the meantime Mafeking—abandoned, as it seemed, to its fate—was still as formidable as a wounded lion. Far from weakening in its defence it became more aggressive, and so persistent and skilful were its rifle. men that the big Boer gun had again and again to be moved further from the town. Six months of trenches and rifle-pits had turned every inhabitant into a veteran. Now and then words of praise and encouragement came to them from without. Once it was a special message from the Queen, once a promise of relief from Lord Roberts. But the rails which led to England were overgrown with grass, and their brave hearts yearned for the sight of their countrymen and for the sound of their voices. "How long, O Lord, how long?" was the cry which was wrung from them in their solitude. But the flag was still held high.

April was a trying month for the defence. They knew that Methuen, who had advanced as far as Fourteen Streams upon the Vaal River, had retired again upon Kimberley. They knew also that Plumer's force had been weakened by the repulse at Ramathlabama, and that many of his men were down with fever. Six weary months had this village withstood the pitiless pelt of rifle bullet and shell. Help seemed as far away from them as ever. But if troubles may be allayed by sympathy, then theirs should have lain lightly. The attention of the whole empire had centred upon them, and even the advance of Roberts's army became secondary to the fate of this gallant struggling handful of men who had. upheld the flag so long. On the Continent also their resistance attracted the utmost interest, and the numerous journals there who find the imaginative writer cheaper than the war correspondent announced their capture periodically as they had once done that of Ladysmith. From a mere tin-roofed village Mafeking had become a prize of victory, a stake which should be the visible sign of the predominating manhood of one or other of the great white races of South Africa. Unconscious of the keenness of the emotions which they had aroused, the garrison manufactured brawn from horsehide, and captured locusts as a relish for their luncheons, while in the shot-torn billiard-room of the club an open tournament was started to fill in their hours off duty. But their vigilance, and that of the hawk-eyed man up in the Conning Tower, never relaxed. The besiegers had increased in number, and their guns were more numerous than before. A less acute man than Baden-Powell might have reasoned that at least one desperate effort would be made by them to carry the town before relief could come.

On Saturday, May 12th, the attack was made at the favourite hour of the Boer–the first grey of the morning. It was gallantly delivered by about three hundred volunteers under the command of Eloff, who had crept round to the west of the town–the side furthest from the lines of the besiegers. At the first rush they penetrated into the native quarter, which was at once set on fire by them. The first building of any size upon that side is the barracks of the Protectorate Regiment, which was held by Colonel Hore and about twenty of his officers and men. This was carried by the enemy, who sent an exultant message along the telephone to Baden-Powell to tell him that they had got it. Two other positions within the lines, one a stone kraal and the other a hill, were held by the Boers, but their supports were slow in coming on, and the movements of the defenders were so prompt and energetic that all three found themselves isolated and cut off from their own lines. They had penetrated the town, but they were as far as ever from having taken it. All day the British forces drew their cordon closer and closer round the Boer positions, making no attempt to rush them, but ringing them round in such a way that there could be no escape for them. A few burghers slipped away in twos and threes, but the main body found that they had rushed into a prison from which the only egress was swept with rifle fire, At seven o'clock in the evening they recognised that their position was hopeless, and Eloff with 117 men laid down their arms. Their losses had been ten killed and nineteen wounded. For some reason, either of lethargy, cowardice, or treachery, Snyman had not brought up the supports which might conceivably have altered the result. It was a gallant attack gallantly met, and for once the greater wiliness in fight was shown by the British. The end was characteristic. 'Good evening, Commandant,' said Powell to Eloff 'I won't you come in and have some dinner?' The prisoners–burghers, Hollanders, Germans, and Frenchmen–were treated to as good a supper as the destitute larders of the town could furnish.

So in a small blaze of glory ended the historic siege of Mafeking, for Eloffs attack was the last, though by no means the worst of the trials which the garrison had to face. Six killed and ten wounded were the British losses in this admirably managed affair. On May 17th, five days after the fight, the relieving force arrived, the besiegers were scattered, and the long-imprisoned garrison were free men once more. Many who had looked at their maps and saw this post isolated in the very heart of Africa had despaired of ever reaching their heroic fellow-countrymen, and now one universal outbreak of joybells and bonfires from Toronto to Melbourne proclaimed that there is no spot 'so inaccessible that the long arm of the empire cannot reach it when her children are in peril.

Colonel Mahon, a young Irish officer who had made his reputation as a cavalry leader in Egypt, had started early in May from Kimberley with a small but mobile force consisting of the Imperial Light Horse (brought round from Natal for the purpose), the Kimberley Mounted Corps, the Diamond Fields Horse, some imperial Yeomanry, a detachment of the Cape Police, and 100 volunteers from the Fusilier brigade, with M battery horse artillery and pom-poms, twelve hundred men in all. Whilst Barton was fighting his action at Rooidam on May 4th, Mahon with his men struck round the western flank of the Boers and moved rapidly to the northwards. On May 11th they had left Vryburg, the halfway house, behind them, having done one hundred and twenty miles in five days. They pushed on, encountering no opposition save that of nature, though they knew that they were being closely watched by the enemy. At Koodoosrand it was found that a Boor force was in position in front, but Mahon avoided them by turning somewhat to the westward. His detour took him, however, into a bushy country, and here the enemy headed him off, opening fire at short range upon the ubiquitous Imperial Light Horse, who led the column. A short engagement ensued, in which the casualties amounted to thirty killed and wounded, but which ended in the defeat and dispersal of the Boers, whose force was certainly very much weaker than the British. On May 15th the relieving column arrived without further opposition at Masibi Stadt, twenty miles to the west of Mafeking.

In the meantime Plumer's force upon the north had been strengthened by the addition of C Battery of four 12-pounder guns of the Canadian Artillery under Major Eudon and a body of Queenslanders. These forces had been part of the small army which had come with General Carrington through Beira, and after a detour of thousands of miles, through their own wonderful energy they had arrived in time to form portion of the relieving column. Foreign military critics, whose experience of warfare is to move troops across a frontier, should think of what the Empire has to do before her men go into battle. These contingents had been assembled by long railway journeys, conveyed across thousands of miles of ocean to Cape Town, brought round another two thousand or so to Beira, transferred by a narrow-gauge railway to Bamboo Creek, changed to a broader gauge to Marandellas, sent on in coaches for hundreds of miles to Bulawayo, transferred to trains for another four or five hundred miles to Ootsi, and had finally a forced march of a hundred miles, which brought them up a few hours before their presence was urgently needed upon the field. Their advance, which averaged twenty-five miles a day on foot for four consecutive days over deplorable roads, was one of the finest performances of the war. With these high-spirited reinforcements and with his own hardy Rhodesians Plumer pushed on, and the two columns reached the hamlet of Masibi Stadt within an hour of each other. Their united strength was far superior to anything which Snyman's force could place against them.

But the gallant and tenacious Boers would not abandon their prey without a last effort. As the little army advanced upon Mafeking they found when about halfway that the enemy had possession of the only water supply and of the hills which surrounded it. For an hour the Boers gallantly held their ground, and their artillery fire was, as usual, most accurate. But our own guns were more numerous and equally well served, and the position was soon made untenable. The Boers retired past Mafeking and took refuge in the trenches upon the eastern side, but Baden-Powell with his war-hardened garrison sallied out, and, supported by the artillery fire of the relieving column, drove them from their shelter. With their usual admirable tactics their larger guns had been removed, but one small cannon was secured as a souvenir by the townsfolk, together with a number of wagons and a considerable quantity of supplies. A long rolling trail of dust upon the eastern horizon told that the famous siege of Mafeking had at last come to an end.

So ended a singular incident, the defence of an open town which contained no regular soldiers and a most inadequate artillery against a numerous and enterprising enemy with very heavy guns. All honour to the townsfolk who bore their trial so long and so bravely–and to the indomitable men who lined the trenches for seven weary months. Their constancy was of enormous value to the empire. In the all-important early month at least four or five thousand Boers were detained by them when their presence elsewhere would have been fatal. During all the rest of the war, two thousand men and eight guns (including one of the four big Creusots) bad been held there. It prevented the invasion of Rhodesia, and it gave a rallying-point for loyal whites and natives in the huge stretch of country from Kimberley to Bulawayo. All this had, at a cost of two hundred lives, been done by this one devoted band of men, who killed, wounded, or took not less than one thousand of their opponents. Critics may say that the enthusiasm in the empire was excessive, but at least it was expended over worthy men and a fine deed of arms.


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08 July 2005

A Theme and Variation


Never Give In, Never Give Up

The British form the most resolute, determined people in history. If it wasn't the Dane or the Norman, it was the Hun, now the terrorist. Remember your forefathers and what you are made of.

"Cry God for England, Harry, and St George." Henry V

06 July 2005

Never






"Never give up, never give in, never forget."--Bill Flynn

"I grew up in the '40s and I heard all these great speeches, like Winston Churchill. His most famous, or infamous commencement exercise speech was one that consisted of seven words. He stood before this graduating class and said: "Never, never, never, never give up."--Johnny Cash

"If you develop rules, never have more than ten."--Donald Rumsfeld

04 July 2005

On the Fourth of July

... in 1982, I had the great good fortune to have the day off for
the Augusta, Montana rodeo. Providence got me there and providence
got me out from that infamous, venerable event!
When we odd thousand stood, I thought we were going to sing the
National Anthem. Instead, over the loudspeaker I heard someone I
knew, an old friend who boomed across the stock pens, freezing
clamorous motion and deafening sound, like EF Hutton with a hot
tip.
I realized that day that the Archangel looks after young men and
women far away from home, after God's own fashion and His Almighty
purpose and unimpeachable design. Loud and gentle as thunder from
that Big Sky came The Voice. I stood lanky and dumbfounded,
a 'dude' (in the truest sense) with my hat on my heart. Catching you
off-kilter,the Lord grants His deepest peace in the least likely
places. All you can do is stand tall, stick out your chest, and be
weepy and thankful. The words are by John Mitchum, but The Voice
across the plains was pure, clear John Wayne.

You Ask Me Why I Love Her?
"America, America,
God shed his grace on thee..."
You ask me Why I Love Her?
Well, give me time and I'll explain.
Have you seen a Kansas sunset
or an Arizona rain?
Have you drifted on a bayou
down Louisiana way?
Have you watched a cold fog drifting
over San Francisco Bay?

Have you heard a bobwhite calling in the Carolina pines,
Or heard the bellow of a diesel at the Appalachia mines?
Does the call of Niagara thrill you when you hear her waters roar?
Do you look with awe and wonder at her Massachusetts shore,
Where men who braved a hard new world first stepped on Plymouth's
rock?
And do you think of them when you stroll along a New York City dock?

Have you seen a snowflake drifting in the Rockies, way up high?
Have you seen the sun come blazing down from a bright Nevada sky
?
Do you hail to the Columbia as she rushes to the sea,
Or bow your head at Gettysburg at our struggle to be free?

Have you seen the mighty Tetons?
Have you watched an eagle soar?
Have you seen the Mississippi roll along Missouri's shore?
Have you felt a chill at Michigan when on a winter's day
Her waters rage along the shore in thunderous display?
Does the word "Aloha" make you warm?
Do you stare in disbelief
When you see the surf come roaring in at Waimea Reef?

From Alaska's cold to the Everglades, from the Rio Grande to Maine,
My heart cries out, my pulse runs fast at the might of her domain.
You ask me Why I Love Her?
I've a million reasons why:
My beautiful America, beneath God's wide, wide sky.
"And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea."

Cut-and-paste to hear it, loud and clear:
http://jdwayne.tripod.com/iloveher.html